


Winter's end

by RedClytemnestra



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Future Fic, Here be spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 93,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedClytemnestra/pseuds/RedClytemnestra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story set in a somehow happy future in which Stannis wins everything. Sansa was rescued from Littlefinger’s dirty paws by a one true knight in the person of her great-uncle. She is currently living a contented quiet existence at the side of her brother Rickon and her two wards: Robert “Sweetrobin” Arryn and Shireen Baratheon. However, everything is about to change when the King goes to Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waiting

Five years later and winter was finally dying. She could feel it. The days were still short and cold but the snow was falling less and less and the winds would no longer cut her skin or hurt her eyes or make her nose bleed. Through the window she could see the faint contours of the sun, a pale light shining behind the grey curtain of clouds. They would even be able to stand outside as they waited for King Stannis and his retinue. Sansa Stark had been busy organizing a proper reception. The last time a Baratheon King came to Winterfell it had been her mother’s duty to do that and Sansa’s only worry was choosing which gown to wear. Last time, she had been little more than a child who believed in songs and beauty. Now she believed in hard work and pragmatism. It took a great deal of both to reconstruct her home. The work was not yet done but at least they managed to make it habitable again.

The former servants, who held been taken to the Dreadfort, came back as soon as they learned that the Starks were back to their ancient stronghold. She could not believe her eyes when she saw Old Nan again, alive and well, a living remainder of her childhood. For a moment she felt as if things could be the way they were when she was a little girl and she would rest her head on the old woman’s lap and beg to hear stories of fair maidens. But it only lasted a moment.

“Do you want me to comb your hair?” Osha’s voice startled her.

Sansa was fond of the wildling woman but she could be so sneaky. No one would ever hear her walking in.

“Yes, please.”

Sansa smiled and sat down, giving her the comb. She knew the woman found enjoyment in those small feminine niceties, a world as foreign to her as the world beyond the Wall was to Sansa. Osha was rough but kind-hearted, a trustworthy friend. Besides, Sansa would be forever thankful to her for taking care of her little brother all those years they were apart. Even though he was not so little anymore. He was as tall as her and very strong. He had proven to be a capable Lord and a fierce warrior. The only trouble was his complete disregard for anything remotely related to courtly etiquette. Mother would have been mortified if she could see how her youngest behaved sometimes. He would claim there was no use for such things in the world they lived now. Sansa would argue and say that winter was not going to last forever nor would the war and someday he would regret not knowing what to do in polite company. Sansa had tried to teach him some manners. She tried her best. But she could not compete with all the years he had spent living in the wilderness and all her attempts were unsuccessful. Rickon would simply mock her and laugh at her expense but she would always forgive him. She would forgive him anything. It still brought tears to her eyes when she remembered their reunion. _“He held me so tight and thought I was Mother”._

“And Rickon?”

“Out, hunting with Robert, Shaggydog and some of the other boys. He said he’d not stand and wait in the cold like an icicle in a cave no matter what you said.” Osha chuckled as she combed Sansa’s auburn locks.

“ _Typical_ ”. And on top of that he had to drag Robert into that. Lysa Arryn would be immensely displeased if she was alive to see her child living amongst wildlings and hunting with Shaggydog by his side. Not even Sansa could believe it sometimes, but the fact was that the once "Sweetrobin" was up to anything Rickon was.

At first, the two boys loathed each other. Rickon was jealous of the constant attention Sansa bestowed on sickly Robert and despised his spineless attitude. Robert, on the other hand was terrified of every single thing about the North, specially its Lord. At the time, Sansa came to bitterly regret her decision to take him with her when she left the Eyrie. But she could not found in her heart to leave him behind to fend for himself. No, she believed he would be safer by her side. But his fits only got worse and she was afraid the boy would not make it through the winter, even though Maester Alleras assured her that there was nothing wrong with him. At least, not physically.

That awful state of affairs only changed in the following months when Shireen came to live with them as well. The Princess was a surprise, so shy and sweet. A wide-eyed child who was mourning not only the loss of her mother but also of her best friend, a fool called Patchface. Sansa lamented when she saw those hideous marks on the poor girl’s face. But everybody soon learned to see past that, especially Rickon. When he was introduced to Shireen, Sansa felt like slapping him for the first time. The boy had stared at the Princess and gently touched the scars, asking: “ _Does it hurt_?” She simply smiled and said “ _No_.”

Sansa did not know how, but the Princess managed to make Rickon and Robert civil to each other and that eventually led to true friendship. The three of them have grown exceptionally close in the past years. A crucial part of their lives had been overshadowed by war, death and cold. They all have been stolen of something, something warm, sweet and innocent they would never have again. Maybe, they longed for friends as much as the other did. Rickon taught Robert how to hunt and fight, “ _A real man has to know how to hold a sword, aren’t you a man?_ ” To everyone’s surprise the Lord of the Vale actually learned to do all of that.

Rickon would have taught Shireen too but Sansa would never have allowed it. What would Stannis Baratheon think!? Instead, Shireen learned to play the harp with Maester Alleras and became quite the accomplished musician. Everyone loved to hear her play, specially the boys. Sansa gave her a needle and taught her embroidery. That turned out quite well too because the only time Rickon accepted wearing clothes that were fit for a Lord was if they were made by Shireen. The Princess had a passion for reading too. She would often read aloud to the boys, who were too slothful to do it themselves. It was a common sight the three of them sitting in front of the fire engrossed in some book. Osha would often join them as well. Shireen also liked to spend time with the wildling children, teaching them, playing with them as if making up for a childhood spent in close company of too many adults.

“What’s wrong with you today? You haven’t been listening to a word I said, have you?” asked an amused Osha “The little lord always says he hates when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“When you have that funny look on your face and seem to be miles away.”

Does she do that? She supposed she did.

“I’m so sorry. But there has been so much to do lately. I feel rather tired.” The feeling of somebody else’s hands on her hair made her feel calmer but truth be told she had been on the verge of a mental breakdown. She did not want the King to found fault in anything. Everything had to be perfect. It was the least she could do. But then again, they say he was a man who was hard to please.

“Is Shireen ready? Or did she decide to go hunting too?”

“She is with Old Nan and some of the other toddlers, hearing a story” Osha chuckled “That old hag knows her share of them, I’ll give her that, worst than the ones I know.”

“Oh, no. Shireen and Robert had trouble sleeping the last time. I specifically asked her not to tell them this sort of things. They are not from the North and get scared quite easily by those tales...”

In fact, once she even had to throw Robert out of the chamber she shared with Shireen. It was highly improper that a boy his age share a bed with the two girls. She told him, half mocking, to go to Rickon’s chambers instead. Her little brother would probably mercilessly tease him for being such a coward and shove him off too. But to Sansa’s surprise, she found the two boys peacefully sleeping side by side on the next morning.

“Some of them are not just tales. I’ve seen with those two eyes some of the things she talks about...” Osha added casually.

Sansa felt a shiver running down her spine. The wildlings currently living in Wintefell spoke of the white creatures with such certainty. Some claimed to have seen and fought against them. Sansa did not know if she believed it or not, but even Shireen would say that everybody talked about it back at the Wall. It was said that her late brother Jon Snow had killed one of them himself. Maester Alleras told her that the creatures were real and there were many books on the subject in the archives of the Citadel. _“I hope to see one someday”_ he said and smiled as if he knew something she didn’t. As a matter of fact, he did that quite often. What a strange man he was. At least he was very competent, as much as Maester Luwin had been in his days.

“Now I will be the one who will have trouble sleeping” Sansa gave a nervous smile.

Osha laughed again. She found something extremely funny about Sansa because she always managed to make her laugh.

“There. Do you like it?”

Sansa looked in the mirror and nodded approvingly. Her hair was tied in a bun at the back of her head. It was the only hairstyle Osha knew but it was very practical.

“Yes, thank you Osha.”

Osha was already busy searching inside and old trunk for a gown for Sansa to wear even though the choices were very limited.

“But tell me why would this King bother to come all the way back to the North when he finally has managed to win? Does your old uncle mention anything in his last message?” The wildling woman chose a green gown and gave it to Sansa who silently agreed to the choice. It was her best gown anyway.

“He says the king wishes to escort Shireen to King's Landing himself. I guess he misses her...”

That was what she had told Shireen, but Sansa knew it was more than that. She herself was very curious.

“And besides, she is his only heir” She said in afterthought.

“We’ll all miss her when she’s gone” said Osha while she helped Sansa to take off her dull everyday clothes.

That was very true. They all cared dearly about the princess. Rickon just cared a little too much. She suspected that this was the reason why he was being so difficult regarding Stannis Baratheon’s reception. He got into a very dark disposition that only got worse as the day of the King’s arrival approached. He would not talk to anyone and he would simply disappear the whole day leaving her sick with worry. The fact that he was hunting when he should be there getting ready was the last straw. Rickon did not want to see Shireen go. Nor did Sansa for that matter. She came to love Shireen as a little sister. But none of them could do anything about it.

Thinking about that now made Sansa wonder if Stannis Baratheon would approve of the way his only daughter had been living. Sansa liked to think that Shireen blossomed under her care, that she found true friends and appreciation, that she learned and felt useful and loved. Sansa had not realized until now that she actually wanted his approval. She knew her current contented situation was a direct result of the King’s efforts in reclaiming his birthright. She prayed for his success every day to all the gods out there and it seems that this time they have decided to listen.

It was hard to make a clear picture of him in her head. She had exchanged letters with him once or twice. He mostly asked about his daughter’s welfare in short sentences. Shireen talked about her father with more curiosity than knowledge. It was clear that the girl loved him but simply was not too familiar with him. Too long have they been apart. Ever since the Princess learned about his return she had been ecstatic. The normally composed girl started to make all sorts of plans: “ _Can you sing to him Sansa? You have such a beautiful voice. Please, I will play the harp and you will sing like we do here? If the boys like, he might like too...I heard him telling Davos once that he found music very soothing...”_

Sansa had her doubts judging by all she had heard about Stannis Baratheon throughout the years. Even Cercei Lannister dreaded him with all her might. But the man was a walking contradiction. People would love and faithfully follow him, like her great-uncle Brynden did, or fear and loath him like Cercei did.

Sansa remembered a conversation she had with Rickon not long ago when she asked him to describe the King. They had fought together during the battle to retake Winterfell. Rickon was busy cleaning his sword and answered matter of fact: “ _Determined, rigorous, humourless...You’d probably not like him...I know you. You’d likely find him too blunt for your delicate tastes...”_ She thought her little brother was likely mocking her again but she had heard worst adjectives being associated with Stannis Baratheon. There were some who would call him merciless, cruel even. The servant of an angry God, the maker of shadows. But others would call him a hero: the rightful king, the one that held the Wall, the one who rescued the north from the hands of traitors. Some of the songs that managed to reach the North lately called him the slayer of dragons as well. The man who ended the war... But she had learned a long time ago that songs were meant to be a source of entertainment and nothing else. She could only hope that great-uncle Brynden would tell her a true account of the last battle for the Iron Throne once he arrived, about the Dragon Queen’s downfall. For now, Sansa decided she respected King Stannis.


	2. Memories

“And the King was granted his wish and lived for many, many years. But when he saw his great- great- great-grandson die and found himself alone amidst the high walls of his golden hall, he experienced something he had not felt in a long time...”

The children did not move, hanging on to every word that came out of Old Nan’s toothless mouth. Sansa chuckled in seeing that the centenarian was still fond of dramatic pauses.

“What?” asked Shireen while holding an open-mouthed boy who was sitting on her lap.

“Fear, my dear child, crippling fear”

“But he had everything he wanted: gold, eternal life and glory” said a freckled girl with braided hair “Why he’d be afraid?”

The little audience around the old woman seemed to agree to that.

“Because all was gone and yet he remained. He was afraid because there was no one else left but him and his memories. The worst thing that can happen to a man is not to die but to live... and remember. A man can have the world at his disposal, all the riches one can dream, a thousand armies bound to his will, the love of the fairest woman in the kingdom...and still he cannot enjoy anything...Why, you might ask? Because he is cursed to remember, and by remembering regretting. Memories are as treacherous as the mermaids who lure sailors into the sea, my little ones. Before one realizes they are drowning you in an ocean of sorrows and yearning, as salty as tears...and that King had his fair share of them...all of a sudden he realized he was doomed...” Old Nan’s voice started to trail off as her eyelids started to close.

Sansa stopped drinking her tea to pay close attention to the last bit of the story before its narrator drifted off to sleep. Even after the relative quietness of the past years, she had come to believe that no hope for the future or reassurance of the present was strong enough to resist the sudden onslaught of the past. Sometimes her memories were all she had to keep her company at night. Recollections that were like vicious dogs on her heels, that kept her awake, making her feel painfully sorry for the loved ones she could no longer embrace, the things she could no longer have and the person she no longer was. It was quite easy to let oneself be dragged by memories...specially the bad ones.

“Drink your tea before it gets cold, will you? You haven’t put anything in your stomach today”.

Sansa’s attention was brought back to the present by a now exasperated Osha who was sitting across from her at the table, having some porridge. She looked around her and saw that Old Nan was snoring softly, ignoring the complaints of the outraged children that had started to rise.

“Oh not again!” protested one of them. “Is that the end? What a boring story! Can you read for us, Shireen? A real story! About a battle!”

Shireen chortled and got up holding a child by each hand. The others followed her like a line of ducks, probably to the library tower; leaving Sansa and Osha alone in the kitchens save for the servants who were involved in the preparations for the feast. Sansa had stepped there earlier only to oversee their work but Osha convinced her to stay and have something to eat. Soon Winterfell would be overcrowded by strangers, and who was to say when they would have the chance to enjoy the simple pleasure of a quiet meal in the foreseeable future.

The kitchens were the warmest place in Winterfell. During the worst of the winter, it was the most comfortable place to have meals or just to spend some time. It was preferable to the great hall. The fires were always lit and it was closer to the source of the natural hot springs that run within the castle walls, warming its way up. Maester Alleras frequently praised the cleverness behind the engineering of the castle. “ _An Architectonic Masterpiece_ ”, he would say, “ _More impressive than any other structure in the Seven Kingdoms”_.

Sansa had never stopped to consider that before. In her mind Winterfell was something that had always been there, as constant and strong as the rocks or the springs, not built by human hands. Sitting there made her feel less uneasy, as everything was in the right place. “ _Except for the absence of the Lord of the said Architectonic Masterpiece”_.

“What if the King takes offense in his absence? It is his duty as the Lord of Winterfell to be here. I thought he would appreciate seeing the King again. You told me they got along quite well when they fought together...”

“Never said that" Osha rolled her eyes after hearing her complaining yet again “But the little lord was very pleased when the King let him punish those traitors...”

It took Sansa many months to gather enough courage to ask her brother how he had dealt with the captured Boltons. Apparently, the punishment involved feeding their body parts to Shaggydog as they were still alive to watch and scream. Although she thought it was an end befitting of such monsters, it was no good to think of that now.

“I assumed he would be here if only to welcome uncle...”

Her brave, bold uncle. Thinking about Brynden “Blackfish” Tully always made her smile. If there ever was such thing as true knight it certainly was him. He escaped the Lannisters by swimming under the Gates of Riverrun and succeeded in uniting the Brotherhood without banners and the knights of the Vale to the cause of Stannis Baratheon.

She remembered when the Blackfish stormed the Eyrie and defeated her captor. For he was her captor regardless of what he fancied to call himself. Littlefinger was the most dangerous man she ever met. There was something ominous and rotten inside him. To the whole world he was a jester with talent for making gold but when they were alone he would remove the mask he wore so well and what lay beneath it terrified her. " _The lengths he was willing to go_ ". What was worst, something about her seemed to exert an irremediable fascination over him. She could feel his eyes on her even when he was not around, watching her, wanting her. He took advantage of his position as her protector time and time again. She felt repulsed by his kisses and touches but did not dare to push him away, letting him act as he pleased, watching as if it was happening to someone else.

His advances were becoming bolder but, calculating man that he was, he would never let his desires overwhelm his ambitions. The plans he had for her prevented him from stepping too far. “ _Your maidenhead is a most valuable prize_ ”, he whispered countless times in her ear, sliding his soft hands up and down her body. She would clench her fists as tight as they would go, digging her nails into her palms, horrified at the prospect of what he would do to her once she was of no use to him. He spoke of marrying her off to Harry the Heir which also implied he was planning to get rid of poor Robert. He had already gotten rid of so many people. She still remembered Lysa Arryn’s screams when he threw her through the Moon Door, right after the woman had professed her devotion to him. Sansa was astonished by her aunt’s final confession. So that was a crime the Lannisters were not guilty of. The murder of Jon Arryn, the event that gave rise to the nightmare that became her life. It all started because of those two. He said the only woman he ever loved was Cat, her mother. " _Is that what love does to people?"_

When Sansa finally learned about Littlefinger’s part on her father’s demise she contemplated killing him in his sleep several times. Her loving honourable father was no match to a vulture like him. In times like these she wished she had Arya’s sort of courage. Her sister would never endure a situation such as that without putting up a fight. All the pretense and manipulation made Sansa weary. She felt besieged, suffocated by his presence. He was slowly succeeding where the Lannisters had failed, killing the person that once was Sansa Stark.

But uncle freed her just in time. Sansa had never seen him before, she was a different person with a different name and a different appearance, but he knew who she was as soon as he laid his eyes on her. “ _You are Cat’s little girl, aren’t you? You are just like her...only the hair...I am so sorry child...”_

That undid her. All the rage, bitterness and sadness and fear she had buried somewhere inside came rushing out like a flood as she cried. She would have fallen had he not been holding her. “ _You are safe now. I promise you...”_

And he had kept his word. He brought her back home. It was partially ruined and it broke her heart but it was home nonetheless. King Stannis had given him permission to escort her and they had much time to talk on the way back. The travel by sea was rather quick and uneventful. It was safe now since the King had gained the support of the Ironborn due to his alliance to Asha Greyjoy.

Sansa told him about everything she had to bear at the mercy of lions, dogs and mockingbirds. No, not everything. Some bits of that nightmare she had kept to herself. If she never spoke of them, maybe with time she could pretend they never happened. But she provided Brynden Tully with information enough to render him furious. He would have executed Littlefinger if it was not for the strict order of the King to keep him alive for interrogation. But at any rate Sansa would not have to suffer his presence any longer and she could count on Stannis Baratheon to give Littlefinger a hard time, as uncle had said.

Afterwards, it was the Blackfish’s turn to tell his side of the story. He told about Mother’s struggles: how she suffered for being away from her children, how she did everything within her power to be reunited to them, even defying Robb’s will by freeing the Kingslayer. It hurt so deeply to hear all of that. Moreover, Sansa had the unease feeling that he was not telling her everything.

“ _She is at peace now, and that is all that matters. Remember her as she was, my dear”_ was the only answer he gave to her questions and she realized with sad resignation that it was best to follow his advice. He also told her about the unlikely ally he found in the King.

The last Baratheon had gained his respect and loyalty and was defeating his adversaries through sheer determination and good strategy. By the time he had taken Winterfell from the bloody hands of the Boltons, and thus gained the support of the North, uncle Brynden and the men of the Brotherhood had burned the Twins to the ground, ending the power of the Freys. Eventually, Baratheon and Tully joined forces to retake Riverrun, rescuing Edmure Tully from captivity.

Sansa heard the entire story in fascination akin to the first time Old Nan told her about the misfortunes of Florian and Jonquil. By the time Sansa had finally distinguished the dark outline of Winterfell in the distance, her hair had already returned to its natural colour and she had established a deep, necessary bond to her great-uncle. After spending such a long time convincing herself to never trust anyone ever again, it was good to feel the numbness inside her melting away. What’s more, he was family and that was what she had craved the most. When she embraced Rickon at last, she dared to hope that maybe Arya and Bran would find their way back home as well.

The newly reunited siblings, their great uncle and a rather discontented cousin Robert, spent the following days together in Winterfell, but all too soon it was time for the Blackfish to leave. Sansa had oftentimes wondered why the King had trusted an important ally like Brynden Tully with a task that would keep him away from the fighting. She had suspected from the beginning that it was not a mere act of kindness towards her. As if reading her mind her uncle said: “ _It is a father’s duty to look after his children and it is an old man’s right to know that he still has something good to fight for. I can do anything the King asks of me now that I know that Cat’s and Lysa’s children are safe”_.

His real mission was going to the Wall and taking Princess Shireen to the safest place in the realm for a Baratheon at the time: Winterfell. Such arrangement seemed to be the most sensible decision, since Queen Selyse had passed away not long ago, another victim of the cough disease.

The Wall certainly was not a place for a little girl. The reports spoke of chaos and mutiny. Sansa had naively assumed that Jon Snow would be safe amidst a neutral order such as the Night’s Watch, away from all the hardships brought by the war but he had met his end through the hands of his own sworn brothers. Later, Shireen told her that Ghost was alive and chose to stay by the Lady Melisandre’s side. The direwolf would follow the Red Priestess everywhere after she burned the traitors who plotted his former master’s assassination almost as if thankful for the justice done on his behalf.

Before he went south again, uncle also informed Sansa that the King had specially requested her to look after his daughter while he was otherwise engaged in the war. She felt a strange sense of pride at that and asked uncle to reassure the king that both she and Rickon would do their best to keep the Princess safe and comfortable. But it was painful to see the Blackfish gone. He said that in spite of all Stannis Baratheon had achieved there still were powerful enemies in the South that had to be dealt with before he could sit on the Iron Throne.

How long all of that happened? Four, five years ago? It took Sansa a couple of moments to realize she was staring at her now empty cup not knowing exactly how its contents had disappeared. The spot previously occupied by Osha was now vacant and she did not even take notice of the woman leaving.

Gods, she had to stop doing that! Her anxiety was making her thoughts wander too far away. _“I will not be like the King in Old Nan’s story!”_ There was no use in dwelling in the past. Everything was fine and ready. She had accomplished so much with the little she had. Let the King and all the rest of them come! There was no reason to worry. Even Rickon would have to come home eventually.

Sansa stood up and reached for a basin on the counter filled with clean cold water, washing her face and the back of her neck as if she could wash away her own troubled mind. Somebody handed her a cloth and she dried her face with it, taking a deep breath. She looked up and found Shireen there smiling at her. Where had she come from? The girl was wearing a fine gown which displayed the black and gold colours of her house. The fabric was an expensive gift from Lord Wyman Manderly and both girls had spent many nights working on a dress fit for a princess, all the while engaged in chatting and singing. Sansa was abruptly reminded that very soon they would be separated by the long distance between King’s Landing and Winterfell. Suddenly Rickon’s silences and absences started to make sense. Soon Shireen would not be here and the affection they shared, the comfort they took in each other’s company would be another thing to remember and long for.

“Are you all right Sansa? I met Osha on the corridor and she asked me to come here and talk to you. She said you were impossible today”

Sansa had to agree. “It is nothing. Really.”

“I told you there is no need to worry so much. Father will be pleased with all the arrangements you’ve made, even if he does not acknowledge it to you. He never liked pomp or pageantry or excesses in any form”

“I would hardly call this reception a display of pageantry, Shireen” Sansa snorted “I am sure he was used to much more in Dragonstone”

For some reason that comment made Shireen burst out laughing.

“No, he was not. I mean it. He does not care about embellishments or things like that. He never did. Actually, he would call them frivolous. If I know him well enough, he will be much more impressed with the work you have done to gather and organize the supplies for the winter. And how Rickon , young as he is, has been keeping the alliance of the free folk and maintaining the King’s peace. The rebuilding of the fortifications is quite impressive as well. The castle was half a ruin when father was last here”

“He is the King. He must be welcomed as such. I only wish we had more resources available to do so”

And there were the other lords as well. All of those between the Wall and the Neck were on their way to Winterfell so as to pledge their allegiance to the King and who knows what else. Some of them were truthfully welcomed, like the Mormont girls or Alys Karstark and her husband. Some of them were real allies such as the Manderlys and the mountain clans. But they should be cautious around others for some of them helped the Boltons not long ago and only turned to their side when Stannis Baratheon’s victory was all but certain. People like Lady Dustin who was endured just for the sake of peace and civility. The woman had arrived the day before and she had glared at Sansa with such an intensity it made her wonder if the woman bore some sort of grudge against her. In contrast, she looked like she had seen a ghost when she was reintroduced to Rickon. Sansa was not about to let people like that woman to look down on her house or deem them weak. _"Winterfell has too look as imposing and sturdy as possible"_.

The new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Edd Tollet, sent a raven stating that he would join them and the Lady Melisandre would go with him. Sansa was curious about the woman, Shireen talked about her with a mixture of awe and respect. “ _She thinks father is her Lord’s chosen. She convinced all Dragonstone of that. Except for him, I think”_.

Maybe the priestess was right after all. That Stannis Baratheon had survived starvation, cold and dragons was nothing short of a miracle. The guards that came with Shireen from the Wall were ferociously devoted to that god of fire. They tried to impose their belief to the people in the castle, speaking of chopping off the ancient heart trees in the woods. But Rickon would have none of it and threatened to chop off the head of any man who spoke of religion in front of him.

But her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden commotion in the corridors.

“It's the King! The King is coming down the road!” several voices shouted from outside.

" _Finally_!"

Sansa and Shireen exchanged excited glances and held each other’s hand. Old Nan remained asleep by the fire. Nothing could wake her up after she started slumbering, the Wall itself could crumble down to pieces in front of her and she would still sleep through it. They followed a path through the corridors that led to the yard, meeting Osha along the way.

It was a clear morning free of snows and all Winterfell was assembled. Sansa and Shireen took their place in front of them with Osha right behind. They were joined by Maester Alleras, the unpleasant Lady Dustin and some other noble lords who had arrived that same day. Through the open gates they could see in the distance a collection of indistinctive dots that were gradually acquiring the shape of men on their horses.

“It’s Lord Rickon!” someone shouted.

" _What_!?" Sansa could discern two horsemen making towards the castle at full speed. She recognized her brother’s unruly red hair from afar; he seemed to be carrying some load. Feeling her insides turning into iced water, she recognized the lifeless form of Robert on the back of Rickon’s horse. She clasped her hands on her mouth as if trying to stop a scream from escaping through her mouth.

The horsemen rode though the gates causing a commotion. It was only then that she recognized her uncle as one of them. He climbed off his horse and took an unconscious Robert in his arms. She ran to them and tried to form a coherent question:

“Uncle! Wha-When...What?!”

“I told you she’d be like this” Rickon said as if her horror was boring him. “Maester Alleras, your assistance is required”

With increasing fright, Sansa spotted a red stain on his furs.

“Is that blood?!” she felt her sight getting blurred.

The Lord of Winterfell ignored his sister, climbed off his horse, took Robert and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carrying him inside of the castle, closely followed by a mildly curious Maester and a crying Princess.

Sansa and Osha exchanged a concerned glance and the wildling woman went right after them. Sansa was about to do the same but she was stopped by uncle who gently placed her hands in between his.

“Now my dear, there is no need for tears, Robert is just fine, he only fainted. I need you to stay here and welcome the King. He will arrive shortly” he said in a calm voice as if he was trying to sooth a frightened child "He is not amused by your brother’s behaviour to say the least”

“But uncle...What happened? Rickon is bleeding...”

“It is not his blood. Trust me. Robert will be fine. Your brother is fine. I just need to have a word with him before he meets the King again” He kissed her forehead and walked in, leaving her with greetings and questions choked in her throat. She turned around in time to see several knights storming through the gates, her pulse beating faster. " _Mother, maiden and crone, what has Rickon done?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can totally understand why GRRM abandoned his initial idea of writing a five year gap.


	3. The King

Sansa watched anxiously as the knights occupied the snow covered yard turning it into a muddy mess. She started wringing her hands, not knowing what to do with them, feeling embarrassed and wishing that a snowstorm would start to fall and cover her under it. The Lords and Ladies behind her were speaking in low rushed tones. She looked over her shoulder, exchanging with the lot of them what she hoped was a collected smile. Lady Dustin responded with a satisfied smirk of her own. This was going worse than she had expected. What had just happened?

Knowing Rickon as well as she did, made Sansa assume the worst in a number of gloomy possibilities. She loved her brother more than she was able to put into words but she was not blind to his flaws. He was reckless and impulsive, patience never being one of his strongest traits, not even when he was a guileless little boy and Shaggydog no more than a wolf cub. She often times speculated that he ought to be like Brandon Stark, the uncle she never met but about whom her parents used to talk about when they believed no one was paying attention. Even some of the older servants had compared Rickon to him more than once. It was said that he was as tall and handsome as he was hot-blooded. But she entertained the thought that whatever objections Rickon might have concerning Shireen’s departure, he was not about to do anything against the King on purpose. Regardless of her affections for Rickon, Sansa doubted that Shireen would forgive him for causing any harm to her father.

Some of the other members of her brother’s disastrous hunting party were returning as well. They were having difficulties in carrying a large carcass of what she recognized as a fully-grown stag. It took six of them to lift the huge dead animal and carry it. They were followed by loud proud servants, praising their little lord’s skills with a spear. It was a magnificent trophy indeed.

“There are three more! We need help to carry them inside. Lord Rickon slew two and the wolf took the others. He only spared a female”

Sansa thought irritated that Rickon could be more subtle. _“Please, do not let Rickon ruin everything. Let Stannis Baratheon be in one piece”_.

She was about to find out. There he was. It should be him since the knights began to bow as a man on a warhorse trotted through the yard. Stannis Baratheon, the only one left to carry his family name and now by the grace of the gods the rightful King to the Iron Throne of Westeros. All of those assembled bend their knees as he dismounted.

To say that Sansa was shocked would be an understatement. Whatever she was expecting, nothing could have prepared her for this. He looked like one of the wildlings her brother had let through the Wall. Clad in dark ragged furs and armour, he walked towards them in aggressive long strides, crushing the snow under his boots, his sword hanging at his side and, weirdly biting the tip of his own tongue. As he came closer the King made an impatient gesture for her to stand up and she obeyed, hoping her legs would not betray her. He was right in front of her now and for a moment she forgot herself and openly stared at him. He was one head taller than her, pale and thin. She could not thoroughly distinguish his features as they were hidden beneath a dishevelled beard that reached his neck, but it was obvious he was not handsome as his brother Renly had been. It was rather the opposite.

She felt her heart beating faster as if she had been running. There was something quite unsettling about him, as if he exuded some sort of raw power. Small wonder he was feared, even by the Lannisters. No one would want to get into his way, she thought. But then she raised her head and met his eyes, and saw they were just like his daughter’s, but whereas hers where sweet and large his were suspicious and had dark circles under them. His Grace looked fatigued and in desperate need of a bath, she reflected, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of horse and sweat that clung to him. It was too much to take in. In the back of her mind she was aware it was expected of her to say something, but what was it again? The King spoke for her:

“Lady Sansa Stark, I presume.” He had a deep raspy voice that made her tremble a little. It was a good voice to command men into battle but not exactly ideal for small talk.

“Y-Your Grace, it is an honour to welcome you. Winterfell is yours”

She heard her father saying similar words to King Robert a lifetime ago in this very same place, which was followed by a warm embrace. She doubted Stannis Baratheon ever embraced anyone, so she curtsied and waited for a reply but none came. She dared to meet his eye again. Was he staring at her too?

“How old are you?” He finally asked, studying her face.

“20, Your Grace.” She blinked in surprise, wishing her hair was not tied in a bun so she could hide her flushed face behind it.

“I see.”

What exactly he saw she could not understand. He seemed utterly unimpressed, looking around as if searching for someone. It was then that she noticed the blood on his arm.

“Your Grace is hurt!”

He looked at his left arm clearly annoyed: "It is of no consequence. Most of it is almost certainly not my blood.”

Whose blood was that anyway?

“Where is my daughter?” he asked.

She was probably fussing over Robert. “ _Gods, let Robert be well”_

“Shireen, I mean, the Princess was very distressed by the...conditions in which Lord Arryn was brought to the castle after an unfortunate hunting exercise with my Lord Brother. She must be attending to him now. I understand that there has been some sort of accident. Has Your Grace met them on the road by any chance?” she asked conversationally, proud that her voice was not giving away her state of mind.

“Yes. I will...talk to your Lord Brother later”. To her ears the last statement sounded like a threat, but maybe that was just his natural way of speaking. She sincerely hoped it was!

“Your Grace must be very tired after such a journey...” She had prepared a courteous speech anticipating this moment but he did not let her finish it.

“I am not. I want to see my daughter now, Lady Sansa. Lead the way. Ser Devan, Ser Gendry, follow us”

Sansa saw two very young knights behind the King clad in the white armour of the Kingsguard. For a moment she was reminded of a far more humiliating experience, when she was cowardly beaten by the former members of the order in front of the whole court in King’s Landing. They were dead in all probability. The man in front of her had seen to that, she thought almost gladly. She wanted to tell him that and much more. She wanted to express her gratitude and heartfelt admiration but he looked ready to enter the castle without her and only didn’t because he was not sure which way to go.

They walked into the great hall leaving the guests to be attended by the servants. Sansa had personally instructed each one of them, they knew exactly what had to be done. As if conjured by her thoughts, Osha appeared at the entrance. Sansa forgot everything and ran to her, a panicked expression on her face.

“Robert is fine and awake but he has a broken leg. Shireen and the Maester are with him in his rooms” the wildling woman said before she could articulate a word.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s not serious. _Not too serious_ were the Maester’s words”

Sansa was suddenly remembered of what happened to gentle Bran. _“Must accidents follow all the Baratheon Kings that come to Winterfell?”_   But she breathed a sigh of relief anyway. At least he was not permanently damaged, but Gods, Robert was the worst of patients, demanding and whining.

Osha looked behind Sansa  and saw the three men listening to their exchange of words.

“The King looks better than last I saw him” she whispered. “ _How did he look back then?”_

“See to the guests Osha, please.” Osha nodded and moved to the side bowing her head in respect as the King walked past her.

Sansa vaguely wondered where her brother and uncle would be, but it was best not to ask now, so she proceeded uncomfortably aware of Stannis Baratheon trailing close behind, desperately thinking of a topic to talk about, something harmless just for the sake of polite conversation. The weather? The state of the roads? _“Has my brother tried to physically harm you, Your Grace?”_

They followed her through the long dark corridors, the silence growing more awkward as they walked.

“May I enquire ...how Your Grace was hurt?” she finally found her voice and asked.

“I have your brother’s pet beast to thank for that”

The mention to her brother made Sansa lose her balance. The King stepped forward to help her but she quickly recovered and kept on walking.

“How so, Your Grace?” she asked tensely, fearing the answer.

“The direwolf was chasing a stag when our parties met. It scared the horses. Several men were thrown off their saddles, myself included” She listened in astonishment but he spoke as if commenting about a minor setback on the road.

“His Grace hurt his arm on the fall” clarified one of the knights behind them. Sansa could not tell which one and she did not turn to look, but his voice sounded genuinely concerned.

“I’ve told a hundred times already, Ser Gendry. It is of no consequence!” He sounded annoyed at his Knight’s remark. Stannis Baratheon would make an even worse patient than Robert, she reflected, the stubborn kind.

“But so much blood...”

He did not let her finish her statement again: “It flew in all directions and landed everywhere when that creature ripped its prey’s throat. Quite the sight” He snorted. Sansa thought of the irony of surviving the bloodiest of wars only to die because of Shaggydog’s voracity.

“There are some refreshments waiting. And if Your Grace wishes to take a bath... before meeting the Princess” She wanted to spare the girl from such a vision. After so many years of waiting and praying for his safe return, Sansa did not want her to be disappointed or scared. Will Shireen be as shocked as she was?

“Are you suggesting that I need one, Lady Sansa?” If he was offended or being sarcastic she could not tell but her face felt like it was on fire.

“By no means, Your Grace! I just thought that you... would like one...I mean, after suffering the adversities of the King’s road...”

“There will be time for that later. Are we near?”

“Almost”

The rest of the way was made in silence. Sansa felt useless, small, and unimportant. She had exhausted herself preparing everything to welcome him and he did not even care, he did not even bother to talk to her. And she had so many questions to ask about his campaigns, the dead and the living and the dragons. But he surely would not want to tell her. A normal King would love the opportunity to boast about his victories; in fact she believed that it would be exactly what Robert or Renly Baratheon would have done. “ _But not their middle brother apparently”_

They finally arrived at Robert’s bedchamber and found the door open. King Stannis ordered his guards to wait at the threshold and accompanied her inside. The injured boy was lying on his bed naked except for his breeches. Shireen was sitting next to him holding his hand to her heart and caressing his hair while Maester Alleras was focused on bandaging his leg. Sansa knew that Robert and Shireen were merely good friends, it was Rickon that the King should worry about if her suppositions were not erroneous, yet to an outside spectator such childlike display of affection could be considered a tad inappropriate.

“It hurts, Shireen. It hurts so much...” Robert mumbled making a pained face.

“You are so brave, Robert. Don’t worry. The milk of the poppy will ease the pain. You will see.” The princess said as she patted his hand and gave it a gentle kiss.

“He is not feeling anything, my Princess” Maester Alleras said in an amused way.

“Are you sure Maester?”

“He drank a whole cup. He will snore like a bear and wake up tomorrow wondering where he is”

Shireen chuckled, relief plastered all over her face when she saw that it was exactly what happened to Robert who had just dozed off. Sansa grinned and was about to announce their presence when the look on the King’s face made her abruptly stop. He was watching his daughter with a strange expression on his countenance, a curious combination of sadness and fondness. Shireen turned and froze on her spot when she took notice of them.

“Father?” She muttered incredulous and slowly rose from the bed, walking towards him. Father and daughter looked at each other for a long time and Sansa observed them with shameless curiosity.

“Shireen” There was unexpected gentleness in his voice while he touched his daughter’s hair, moving it from her face as if searching for the familiar greyscale scars to confirm her identity. “You...have grown”

“You look...very different as well, Your Grace” The princess observed him and made a move as if to touch her father’s beard but gave up and did a curtsey instead. He frowned again and touched his own beard almost timidly and a little annoyed, inadvertently showing his blood-covered arm.

“You are bleeding!” Shireen cried out.

“It is nothing” He was making an effort to soften his tone of voice. It seemed that he had reserved all his kindness to his daughter.

“Your Grace needs to rest. Maester Alleras, can you attend to my fa....The King now?

“Certainly, Princess. I will fetch some more dressing material for his wounds and I will join you in a moment.” The Maester bowed and took his leave.

“We should let Robert rest and see the King to his bedchamber, don’t you think Sansa?” Sansa blinked in surprise when both Baratheons finally acknowledged her presence, two disturbingly similar pair of eyes looking at her.

“Of course, Princess”


	4. Hands

Stannis Baratheon eyed the bedchamber Sansa had carefully prepared for him distrustfully as he peeled off his gloves. Shireen was on the corridor reacquainting herself with a certain Ser Devan of the Kingsguard. It seemed that their friendship dated back to their childhood days in Dragonstone and the girl was beyond surprised to see him in front of her again. Sansa understood such emotions quite well but the King did not look particularly pleased.

“ _Determined, rigorous, humourless_ ”, Rickon’s description of the King had proven to be disturbingly accurate. She berated herself for still having silly girlish notions and presuming, even for a moment, that he would be different, akin to a conqueror, a gallant king from the stories of old. Stannis Baratheon was anything but such. She should know better by now and accept in her heart that what one anticipates very rarely comes about. Her thoughtfulness seemed to annoy him; her polite questions were turned against her. “ _Is he displeased with his rooms? Is it even possible to please him at all?_ "Damn him! He made her feel inadequate and this unwelcome feeling of vulnerability was something she had not experienced in a long time. A servant had just left after delivering his belongings which were surprisingly scarce for a King, leaving them alone.

“Are the accommodations to your liking, Your Grace?” she dared to ask no longer standing the silence.

“It is good enough” he turned and gazed at her. She was beginning to believe that the frown between his eyes was a permanent feature. His stare was as merciless as the rest of him, she concluded.

“May I offer you some lemon water?” She asked anxious to have something to occupy her hands with. The King nodded in agreement. Sansa walked further into the room and reached for the flagon on the table, pouring some of the sour beverage in a cup, her back to him. Maybe that was not a good idea after all. She could feel his eyes on her nape almost physically. She was glad it was still winter and her heavy clothing covered her completely, otherwise he would see her shivering, gooseflesh spreading all over her limbs. She made a great effort to turn around and smile, offering him the cup but she was not expecting him to be standing so close behind and she bumped into him, spilling some lemon water on her gown.

“I am so sorry, Your Grace!” Sansa cursed her own clumsiness and looked at him ashamed. He returned her look, eyes piercing like a blade. She had the disconcerting impression that she was under a careful study, as if he was assessing her and she was not good enough for his standards. But why would he do that?

She reached for the flagon again in order to pour some more lemon water in the now half-empty cup  but he took it from her hands with a swift movement.

“Let me do that, my lady”

She hoped her blush was not too noticeable. This was mortifying. She had to leave his presence as soon as possible.

“I...will find Maester Alleras and ask the servants to prepare a warm bath for you, Your Grace” she muttered in a thin voice.

“Eager to leave my presence, Lady Sansa?” he was sneering at her and he knew that she would not be daring enough to retaliate.

“Of course not, Your Grace!” that was precisely what she was trying to do, but it was very rude of him to throw the obviousness of her actions to her face. “I am merely concerned about Your Grace’s wellbeing. And besides...” she stepped closer, momentarily forgetting her nervousness, in attempt to see the King’s wound but it was well hidden beneath his furs and armour. “...there are probably layers of dirt over your injury. A bath would enable Maester Alleras to perform a thorough examination of the damage and it would help to avoid undesired outcomes” Even she knew that much.

“What outcomes?” he sipped his lemon water sounding uninterested in his own question.

“Your grace has certainly witnessed enough battles to know that a seemingly minor injury when not properly cared for has been the cause of loss of many a man...”

“And is my lady versed in the arts of healing?” He asked sardonically.

She had aided Maester Alleras during the labour and delivery of quite a few women. But other than that her experience was limited to taking care of Robert’s fits when he was younger or patching Rickon or any of the children in the castle whenever they hurt themselves in their everyday dealings.

“I believe that everyone is forced, in times of war, to seek the knowledge of things one normally would not try to learn in the first place, Your Grace” She was conscious of her prattling.

He merely listened to her which prompted Sansa to keep on chatting in attempt to keep the unnerving silence away. ”But worry not. Maester Alleras will be the one to attend to you. He is a remarkably talented healer ....among other things”

Where was he? It does not take this long to go from his study to this area of the castle.

“Do you trust that Maester?”

She stopped to actually consider the question. “Y-Yes, Your Grace“ she answered honestly.

“I wonder what a Dornishman is doing so far away from his homeland”

Sansa told Maester Alleras the same thing years ago when Maester Samwell of the Wall brought him to Winterfell. Why would an erudite man such as him come so far away to the north in the middle of a war? _“No Maester of the Citadel would refuse the opportunity to serve a house as old in honour as the house of Stark...and it is as distant from Dorne as man can go_ ”, he smiled that enigmatic smirk of his. Sansa did not question his reasons any longer and gladly accepted his services, never having reason to complain since then. The success in the rebuilding of the castle was mainly Maester Alleras’s doing as well as the current prosperity of the glass gardens. Besides, the children adored him; especially Shireen. He was a gifted tutor. _“Is the King mistrustful of the Dornish as well? Does he trust anyone?”_

“The Maester is a valuable asset to Winterfell, Your Grace. I thought the Dornish were your allies...” or so her uncle had told her. Doran Martel blamed Daenerys Targaryen for his son’s death and he would never support the Lannisters.

“That does not mean they are trustworthy”

She pondered that he would not have come this far by being trusting. Sansa could relate to that quite well, but the realm of distrust was a lonely place to be. She felt an overwhelming need of reassuring him of their loyalty.

“Your Grace can be certain that you and Princess Shireen will always have true friends in the North”

His answer came in the form of a rather unkind snort. Did he doubt her? He was entitled to think poorly of her family after Rickon’s appalling behaviour. She had to say or do something to erase that unfortunate first impression.

“I...I want to apologize on the behalf of my Lord Brother for the incident on the road, Your Grace”

“You don’t have to apologize if you were not involved, my lady”

“But my brother...”

“Life would be far more complicated if men were suddenly forced to apologize or make amends for all their brothers’ wrongdoings” He spoke of his own experience, for sure. Sansa did not know what to say anymore but she was rescued by Shireen.

“Devan Seaworth is now Ser Devan of the Kingsguard. It is hard to believe” she looked marvelled at the news.

“He served me ably as a squire. When he was knighted he asked to serve in the Kingsguard. He had all the merits required to make him worthy of the position. He is currently the youngest Knight to ever be raised to the order. It is a stain in the history of the Kingsguard that such honour once belonged to a Kingslayer. Lord Davos was delighted”

Shireen chuckled but something made her stop and pale for a moment. “Is Lord Davos still alive, Your Grace?”

“Very much alive.” Stannis Baratheon said as if the particular fact was a nuisance to him. “As Hand to the King it is his duty to stay in the capital in my absence”

Sansa was actually pleased to hear that. Lord Davos was the one who discovered Rickon and Osha’s whereabouts, acting on Lord Manderly’s orders. She hoped to personally express her gratefulness to him someday.

“If you must know he was strongly opposed to my coming to the North in such a time”

Sansa was starting to wish the King had listened to his Hand’s advice.

“But Your Grace came anyway” Shireen said softly, her voice breaking a little. Sansa felt she was intruding a very private moment but she remained quiet and they seemed to have forgotten about her again.

“I have a duty to you as well, a duty that has been neglected far too long, to my shame. I had to remind Lord Davos of that. And there are certain matters to attend here that require my presence. I had to come.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I am very happy that you are here, whatever the reason might be.”

Shireen looked at her own feet and the King seemed to be very interested in the design of the cup in his hands. Sansa could hear a number of unspoken words hanging in the air.

“I am very sorry for the delay, Your Grace” the moment was interrupted by Maester Alleras’s arrival. Sansa decided to seize the opportunity to take her leave and go in search for that tactless brother of hers.

“Is there anything else that Your Grace requires?”

“Yes. Ask Ser Gendry to come in”

“As Your Grace commands. I shall take my leave then” Sansa curtsied, hating the way he addressed her but happy for being able to leave his presence and he did not seem to mind this time. She needed some time alone to catch her breath and rest her drained mind. Meanwhile, she hoped that maybe Shireen would persuade her father to take a bath. If they were going to have to seat next to each other during the feast let him at least be clean. She stepped out of the room closing the door behind her, doing a graceful curtsy to Ser Devan and Ser Gendry, not sure of who was who. They respectfully bowed to her.

“Ser Gendry?” she hesitated.

“It is I, my lady” he sounded shy and looked quite familiar, very Baratheon like. King Stannis did not seem to be the sort of man who would father a bastard but his late brother Robert undeniably had a reputation. _Would it be possible?_

“The King wishes to see you”

“Thank you, my lady”

Sansa smiled and walked away, feeling the start of a headache. It was only when she was at a safe distance that she permitted herself to groan in frustration, rubbing her temples. Stannis Baratheon confused her. He had dismissed her as if she was no more than a servant but at the same time she felt an odd empathy for him. He had been rude and inconsiderate to her but he was capable of kindness and care for his loved ones judging by the way he had acted around his daughter. Maybe Sansa should place the blame for the King’s antagonism on other person.

“Rickon Stark!” She threw his door open, slamming it close behind her. Both he and Shaggydog jumped in surprise. She had never yelled at him like this before. He was bending over a table near the fire dressed in his breeches and a grimy shift, splashing his face with the warm water from the washbasin.

She walked to him, rolling up the sleeves of her gown, and took hold of a pitcher, spilling water on his head; his complaints were muffled by the water entering on his mouth.

"Why?!” Sansa growled as she started to scrub his head with some coarse soap “Why in the name of all the Gods do you put yourself and others in a deliberate position of danger, insult the King and..."

"Danger? Insult?” He supported himself by putting his hands on the table and sounded intentionally affronted “There was neither danger nor insult. You are not being fair. I have done nothing wrong . . . in weeks! If you want to blame someone blame him for getting in the way of a direwolf and its prey"

“Will you take me seriously for once!? I was so worried about you! When I saw Robert...”

“Robert will be fine.” In Rickon’s defence there was a hint of regret in his voice. He would not be joking around if Robert was seriously hurt. “You know him. He will make it look worse than it actually is just because he enjoys the attention, the scoundrel”

“...and when I saw that blood on you...”

“That might happen when one hunts, you know. When you kill things you are bound to spill some blood...”

Sansa poured more water on his head to rinse out the soap: “...and then I saw Stannis Baratheon bleeding and I thought you have done something and...”

“Calm down! I was just hunting!” he stepped away from her and took hold of a cloth “It was not as if I had ordered Shaggydog to attack him on purpose. Why are we having this conversation? You should be expressing your gratitude.”

“I beg your pardon?!” she took the cloth from his hands and put it over his head, angrily rubbing his hair dry.

“Thanks to us you can offer a real feast now. Don’t you remember when Robert Baratheon came here? He alone would have devoured half the animals in the Wolfswood” Rickon laughed at his own joke. But Sansa did not found that so amusing:

“It is Shireen’s family you are laughing about!” The boy immediately fell silent. “And besides, King Stannis is nothing like his brothers...as far as I could see” Not that this was necessarily a good thing.

“And nothing like his daughter” Rickon said after a while. Suddenly all the playfulness was gone from his face and he looked beaten, sorrowful. She had never seen him like this and it felt like a pang on her heart. Against her better judgement, she held him, petting his wet hair, forgetting everything else. He hid his face on her shoulder. All of a sudden he was just a boy again, not the fierce young Lord of Winterfell.

“Rickon... you cannot fault Stannis Baratheon for wishing his only daughter back at his side. You should have seen their faces when they met...Try to be happy for her. Stop acting like a mad man and put yourself in her place for a change. What would you do if father walked through the gates and asked you to follow him?

Rickon let go of her and walked to the window spitting words along the way: “I’d tell him to go back where he came from and mind his own business!”

“You don’t mean that...” The siblings stared at each other “Do you resent father?” Sansa held the memory of her parents deep in her heart, she had always assumed he did the same.

“No” he muttered “But he was not here, was he? None of them were here. You were. And Shireen, and Osha, and Robert...and now that bastard of a King comes to my house and means to take everything away from me! Everything that matters!”

Sansa felt that she was missing something. Was he still talking about Shireen? She was not aware that the nature of their attachment ran so deep. She knew it was there but thought it was mostly innocent flirtation. She had caught the two of them talking in whispers on dark corners and holding hands under the table several times. He would also sit too close to her during their lessons or meals but according to Robert it was just an excuse to copy the girl’s notes or to steal bits of food from her plate. On one occasion, when they were all lazing around the great hall at the end of the day, Shireen had complained of cold feet and Rickon’s reaction was to unceremoniously remove the girl shoes, put her legs on his lap and rub her feet until they were warm again. The only time Sansa really worried was when the two of them disappeared for half a day for a horse ride through Winterfell’s surroundings. That sort of behavior was not exactly suitable for the warden of the North and the Princess of Westeros but it was certainly not harmful...wasn’t it?

“You are not making any sense”

“Has uncle talked to you yet?” Rickon seemed a little anxious.

“No, not yet. Thanks to you" she complained, realizing she was not given any time to welcome her dear uncle.

He nodded. “Good.”


	5. The Red Woman

Night had fallen a little later than usual. That was a good sign, yet another proof that winter was going away, albeit slowly. The season started brutally; a bitter cold enveloped the land, turning the world gray, sky and earth indistinguishable. One day, the sunlight disappeared, as if the unrelenting icy winds had extinguished it, covering everything in thick darkness. Sansa spent a whole year without going outdoors, never wandering too far from a fireplace if she could help it. Shaggydog saved them from hunger on quite a few occasions. For a long time the direwolf was the only dweller of Winterfell bold enough to go hunting, providing for them as though they were part of a large pack. But after a while it seemed that they were the only living beings left in the world as though the pitiless cold had banished all life from the land, sparing no one. Even the once familiar howling of the wolves was gone. The castle became an island in a frozen sea.

She made a decision then, to be practical, to occupy her thoughts with the things she could control. If she worked hard enough then perhaps she would succeed in both keeping herself warm and her own fears at bay until it was all over. And work she did: needlework, cooking, cleaning, sowing seeds in the glass gardens, whatever it was necessary to do. As Lady of Winterfell it was her duty to set an example to the people who look at her for orders, for guidance or simply for comforting words. She confessed her uncertainties only to her pillows, sometimes to Osha, and never to her brother or her wards, always making sure to look cheerful around them, as though there was no winter nor war to worry about.

Sansa decided it was wise to adopt the same attitude for as long as the King and the other nobles were occupying her home. The Gods knew she had abided worse things in the past. Thus she focused on lighting up another row of candles. The great hall was lit by hundreds of them and some torches. The fire was crackling in the great fireplace, casting long shadows on the ground, and there were also a couple of braziers placed on the corners. No one would have cause to complain about the cold, Sansa thought satisfied. But the walls were naked, no tapestries, no golden banners, a sharp contrast with the time Robert Baratheon was there. She hoped the King would not take notice of such details. “ _He probably will, but at least him and his men will be warm and fed_ ”. Her musings were interrupted by the sound of footsteps and she turned from her task to see Brynden Tully coming closer to her, looking refreshed after a bath and a clean change of clothes.

“Your mother would be proud of all you have done here” He gave her a broad smile which she returned with one of her own as she flew towards him and threw herself in his arms, squeezing him in a tight hug.

 “Ah, my dear, how long has it been?” he laughed hugging her back.

“Too long” Sansa grinned, feeling at ease.

“Let me look at you, child”

The Blackfish let go of his great-niece and took a proper look at her. He smiled, but there was a hint of sadness behind that smile.

“Not a child anymore but a woman grown. And a beautiful one”

She smiled at the compliment. After spending part of the morning being victim of Stannis Baratheon’s taunting, it was a nice change. Finally someone who did not confused or exasperated her and truly esteemed her company.

“I’m so glad you are alive, uncle.” She took his hands and kissed them.

“So am I” he laughed “But you seem troubled. Is everything all right?”

 _No._ “Yes, it is. I am just a bit tired”

He looked at her as if he did not believe her. She took his arm and tried to sound happier. "But let us talk about you"

They sat next to each other on one of the long benches and she rested her head on his shoulder, moved by his gentleness and concern.

“Tell me all you have been up to since we last spoke”

“So much has happened since then. I would not know where to start” He had always looked ageless to her eyes, but for a moment he was just an old soldier who had been too long in war and she felt guilty. Maybe her question reminded him of things he would rather forget.

“Then, for now, tell me only good news”

“Let me begin with family news, then. Your uncle Edmure is going to marry again”

She looked down and felt her eyes water at the thought of the tragedy that succeeded Edmure Tully’s last wedding celebration. His Frey wife had died in childbirth many years ago, leaving him devastated by her loss. But according to her great-uncle, he would often defend her memory, claiming that she was a good woman, innocent of her family’s shame.

“And who is he betrothed to?”

“Margaery Tyrell”

“Oh...” That was indeed surprising; cunning Margaery Tyrell was going to be her good aunt. _“Is this her fourth or fifth marriage?”_

“Mace Tyrell tried to force the King into marrying her in exchange for his allegiance”

“And he refused it?”

“He said he would rather be burned by dragon’s breath than marrying his brother’s widow and that his family bloodline would end in him before he agreed to such indecency” Brynden Tully sounded amused. Stannis Baratheon was certainly very eloquent when it came to voicing his objections.

“He said that to Lord Tyrell’s face?!”

“No, to his envoy, his son Garlan, a reasonable man, Gods bless him. But I doubt the King would use a different choice of words if Mace Tyrell was sitting in front of him. His Grace has never forgotten the siege of Storm’s End, nor should he”

“And is uncle Edmure satisfied with this arrangement?”

“I would dare to say so. Margaery Tyrell is pretty enough to distract him of any misgivings he might have. I only hope that her family come to terms with the fact that there will be no Tyrell queen as long as Stannis Baratheon is King, on the other hand...” She knew he wanted to tell her something but did not know how. He sighed a bit ruefully and looked into her eyes.

“What is it, uncle?” she tightened her hold on his arm.

“My dear” he said cautiously “There is something we must discuss before any other world is said. Rickon should have told you this long ago but for whatever reason he chose not to do so”

She was feeling curious rather than concerned. Whatever he had to tell her should not be cause for alarm. All the people who mattered to her were currently under the same roof, safe and healthy. The rest was unimportant. However, she was distracted by Osha who arrived carrying some plates muttering something under her breath.

“Is everything ready in the kitchens, Osha?”

The woman nodded somewhat irritated.

“What’s wrong?” Sansa did not have the strength to deal with any more trouble that day.

“Some crows had just perched on our doorsteps, hungry and freezing” she snapped. Even though there was truce between the free folk and the Night’s Watch, Osha had never failed to remember their past enmities. “ _What can you expect of a bunch of men who cannot even fuck a woman?_ " Sansa had grown accustomed to her swearing but never failed to reproach her. Rickon and Robert already had an extensive vocabulary of profanities without her help.

“Did you invite them in?”

“Yes, I even offered them food. They are stuffing their faces in the kitchens” She answered as she placed the plates on the edge of a long table. Sansa stood up and gently patted her friend’s shoulder, proud of her attempts at politeness.

“I shall greet them. I will return shortly, uncle”

“No, take your time. It is probably for the best. Let’s continue in the morning” He looked relieved.

Sansa agreed but now she was especially curious. Still mulling over the matter, she walked into the kitchens and saw several rosy faced men ravenously eating some stew and bread. They all stopped when they saw her and stood up, wiping their mouths on their sleeves and hands. One of the youngest had a sadden look, as if it was too much of an effort to be parted from his food.

“There is no need for that, my lords. Please, enjoy your meal and rest” she said understandingly. The men immediately did what she told, but one of them stepped closer and bowed to her.

“Thank you for having us, my lady, I am Eddison Tollett”

“The honour is ours, Lord Commander. The men of the Night’s Watch are always welcome in Winterfell”. She repeated the old saying but silently wondered if any of the men enjoying her hospitality had anything to do with Jon Snow’s death.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“Yes, I would like an audience with the King”

 “I am afraid His Grace is getting ready for the feast that will be held in his honour. I believe you will have to...”

Sansa stopped talking when her gaze fell on a figure standing very close to the large hearth. The flames in the fire seemed to dance around her, framing her silhouette. Dressed in a silky red cloak that could not possibly keep her warm in such a chilly night, hair as red as blood braided in a long plait that reached her waist, she seemed oblivious to their presence. She turned to look at them, and Sansa half expected her eyes to be reddish or watery because of her closeness to the fire but they were not. She had vivid eyes that looked somehow misplaced on her otherwise serene face, that were penetrating and ...a little bit mischievous? She was stunning, a sort of wild beauty almost frightening to behold. She moved closer, head held high, a knowing smile adorning her features.

“Meet the Lady Melisandre" said Lord Commander Tollett and Sansa did not miss his reverent tone. “ _So this is she..._. _the famed Red Woman_ ”

Being face to face with her made Sansa involuntarily stand up straighter, her hands smoothing her simple gown. For the second time in the day, she felt inadequacy, wondering how Stannis Baratheon’s advisors should suffer when the King and this woman were standing next to each other in their council meetings. It should be a most uncanny experience and only iron-willed men would stand such a test.

“Greetings, my lady” Sansa gathered her wits and spoke, silently thanking Septa Mordane for providing her with so many valuable lessons on courtly manners. She took refuge in it whenever self-consciousness assaulted her and such strategy had never failed before. “ _Except with Stannis Baratheon_ ”, she thought with some resentment.

The woman gave her a gentle smile and took her hands in hers. Sansa was surprised by their warmth and softness.

"There is a blessed future waiting for you, Lady Sansa. I saw it in the flames” she had a low melodious voice; it made sense that Shireen’s guards were so devoted to her preaching “Don’t try to run away from it. Embrace it..." there was a maternal kindness in the way she uttered those words. She came even closer and Sansa felt as warm as if she was standing next to a cosy fire.

“...and you shall never have reason to fear again”. Sansa closed her eyes after those words were whispered in her ear, feeling weightless, the strain of the day leaving her body, waves of warmth washing over her. It felt unreal.

“Excuse me, my ladies” a voice startled her.

A serious boy, younger than Rickon, dressed in furs and a doublet which showed a ship with an onion on its sails had entered unnoticed. He bowed to them, slightly blushing. Sansa had seen him from afar. “ _The King’s squire_ ”

“The King requested that the Lady Melisandre joined him as soon as she arrived”

The woman grinned, showing perfectly lined teeth: “Is your Lord father here as well, Steffon Seaworth?”

“No, my lady” he replied “He stayed in King’s Landing”

“He didn’t do it gladly; I’d wager.”

“Yes, it was very difficult to convince him to stay behind” the boy was trying not to chuckle “King Stannis had to command him to do so”

“Take me to him” she could barely suppress her eagerness at the mention of his name.

Her departure felt like waking up from a restful slumber to those who have been held captive by her alluring presence and now were liberated to go back to their tasks. Sansa imagined Lady Melisandre would make an exceptional queen strong enough to support her King in the arduous task of rebuilding whatever was left of a kingdom torn apart by war, better than Cersei Lannister ever was or Margaery Tyrell could ever be. “ _She looks regal enough_ ”. All eyes were drawn to her like lost moths to the light. Not even King Stannis can be immune to her presence. _“But she is a priestess, can she marry him?”_

“Do you follow her religion as well, Lord Commander?” she asked.

“I follow no religion, my lady. It is just the same old sh....” he stopped when he realized to whom he was talking to “... tale, only told in a different manner. But I follow her. We all do. We owe her a great lot. The whole kingdom does. If my lady had seen half the things that woman had done at the Wall...” his eyes widened a little as he spoke.

Sansa was thankful she didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Melisandre is fabulous and needs more love (I wish I could do her justice). It would be a nice plotwist if she had been right all this time.  
> Anxious for her storyline in GoT S3. Those promos are very promising but confusing. It looks like she and Thoros of Myr scheduled a priests of R'hllor meeting to discuss which one of them has found the true Azhor Ahai (for her is Stannis and for him is Beric Dondarrion), or something like that?
> 
> 2\. Anxious for the Tullys too. Someone should really write Margaery/Edmure.


	6. Never trust a song

“BECAUSE FURY BUUUUUUUUUURNS THE BRIGHTEST!”

All of those gathered in the great hall acclaimed Tom of Sevenstreams as he ended the surprisingly cheerful ballad considering the sort of story it narrated. It told in heroic flourished verses of how King Stannis and his brave men defeated the hordes of savages led by Daenerys Targaryen in the outskirts of King’s Landing. It was an awful song but it seemed to be a favourite among the King’s men since most of them sang along with the singer, slamming their fists on the table to the chorus and beseeched him to play it for a second time. Sansa applauded it as well even though she had spent the entire performance immersed in silent conjectures, trying to separate fact from fiction in the lyrics. Either way, its message could not be any more explicit: there was no one left to defy the rightful King’s claim.

“A lovely song, is it not?” asked a merry Lord Justin Massey, who was sitting next to her and seemed particularly fond of the tune. Uncle Brynden had just introduced them and Sansa had already taken a fancy to the new Lord of Harrenhal. He was courteous and considerate and had no problems in satiating her curiosity. In fact he was more than willing to answer any of her questions. The other ladies sitting next to them were charmed by his gallantry, with the possible exception of Alysane Mormont who knew him quite well, having fought by his side during the war. The Lady of Bear Island rolled her eyes and shook her head at most of the things he said.

“Yes, indeed...lovely song” Sansa lied “How is it called?”

“Fury burns” he said proudly as if the song was his creation.

“How...original”

“It is, isn’t it? Tom of Sevenstreams is an exceptionally talented musician. It is always a joy to listen to him. I can ask him to play his latest composition to you, my ladies, if you wish. It is about the Lannister woman’s death...how is it called Ser Gendry? That one song you are always whistling to...”

“The last roar of the lioness” answered a tired Ser Gendry who was standing behind Shireen. The King had entrusted him with the task of escorting the Princess for as long as they stayed in Winterfell. Ser Devan was standing behind the King. None of the White Cloaks were given any time to rest.

“Yes! A poignant melody! That terrible woman was not worthy of such tribute” continued Lord Massey.

He had just given a colourful account of Cersei Lannister’s suicide by throwing herself out of the highest tower in the Red Keep holding hands with her son, Tommen. At the night of the Blackwater battle, so many years ago, the woman confessed in a drunken stupor that she would rather die by Ilyn Payne’s sword than facing the judgement of Stannis Baratheon in case the latter was victorious. She was true to her word in the end. _“She meant for Ilyn Payne to kill me that night as well, yet here I am”._

“Too sad a song for a joyful night, Lord Massey” said Alysane Mormont “And the King hates it almost as much as he hates Fury burns”

“His Grace certainly appreciates it. Why would anyone hate such a lively song?”

Sansa stole a sideways glance towards the subject of their conversation who was sitting a chair away to her left at the high table. When he entered the hall earlier, accompanied by his daughter, Sansa felt like she was meeting a different man. He had taken a bath and changed his armour for dark, formal simple clothing and a clean fur-lined cloak. With short hair flat against his scalp and without the beard she could finally see all the angles of his face which, she decided after some reflection, was too stern to be considered attractive. He was wearing no crown but there was still a fierce air of command about him.

Sansa had expected the King to say a few words to the other guests when he arrived but he only made a gesture for the feast to begin and sat down, never once acknowledging her presence. From time to time he turned to exchange words with Shireen, squeezed in a chair between them, or to Ser Brynden, sitting at his left.

As the King was facing forward, she was able to see his profile. He gave a fleeting look at her direction, as if suspecting someone of watching him and she held her breath like a child caught doing mischief. Fortunately his eyes did not linger on her and he turned away to answer something to Wylis Manderly.

The King did not eat much and was still sipping his first cup of wine, uninterested eyes roaming over the great hall. _“Is the food not to his taste?”_ she thought apprehensively _“Is it so awful?”_ A quick look at the lower tables told her otherwise. The great hall was crowded with wildlings, knights, soldiers, mercenaries and peasants and every one of them seemed to be enjoying themselves. The servants moved about refilling empty cups when needed or carrying trays of food while occasionally flirting with the visitors. Sansa recognised Osha amongst other free women sipping some wine and obviously laughing at a handful of men of the Night’s Watch sitting at a table nearby. Beyond the tables there were people dancing to the sound of the ever popular The Bear and the Maiden fair. She saw Wynafryd Manderly and Lyanna Mormont among the dancers. Sansa particularly loathed the irreverent song; it brought back undesirable memories and it made her dig her nails in the back of one of her hands under the table. Although she was fond of dancing, she could not bring herself to give any unnecessary step that night, refusing all invitations with a polite smile, to the great disappointment of Lord Massey.

The loud sound of laughter attracted her attention to the other end of the table, were Rickon sat between their uncle and Lord Manderly. They were laughing hard at something his granddaughter, Wylla, had said. It never ceased to amaze Sansa, how well the Lord of White Habour and the Lord of Winterfell liked each other. Their meetings were always a happy occurrence for both sides. Their cheerful mood contrasted with Ser Brynden’s silence. The Blackfish was unusually quiet and had barely touched his food. Sansa knew there was something upsetting him but it was an inappropriate time to ask.

“Why so solemn, Tully?” Lord Manderly asked the question for her “Join us, drink and be merry! This is a joyful occasion! We're celebrating...”

“...life!” Rickon was quick to answer.

“That's it” replied Lord Manderly laughing wildly “Life and...”

“Justice!” Rickon grinned raising his cup.

“Yes! To justice!” The Lord of White Harbour was indeed a loud drunk.

“And it is all in your honour, _Your Grace_ ” said Rickon emphasising the title with forced reverence and taking a long sip of his wine.

“It is an honour I could do without, Lord Stark” replied the King with a note of sarcasm in his voice.

“Your Grace should have told this to my sister a month ago. She has been very...enthusiastic about welcoming the rightful-King-of-the-Seven-Kingdoms to our modest home”

“You did not have to trouble yourself, my lady” the King shot her a sideways glance.

“It was no trouble at all, Your Grace” Sansa felt her cheeks burning. What an uncomfortable situation, and her brother’s conduct was making everything worse.

“Damn, this is good. Don’t you agree, Lord Manderly?” he said as he shoved a big slice of roasted venison into his mouth, chewing it noisily. Lord Manderly expressed his agreement by nodding and chewing his own food as loudly as her brother.

“But tell me, do you enjoy the song about your heroic triumph, _Your Grace?_ ” her brother turned in his chair to look at the King.

“Not in the least, Lord Stark. It is nothing but a bunch of lies told with melody”

“Which parts are untrue?"

“Most of it”

“The dragons, for instance, were not half as big as the singer lead us to believe” said uncle Brynden. He should be as bothered as Sansa by the impertinent manner in which their relative was addressing the King.

“How big were they?” asked Shireen, curious. The Princess had read enough books on the subject to be interested in the conversation.

“Just large enough for a man to ride them, my Princess” the Blackfish answered “The Dragon Queen should have let them grow larger before deciding for an attack. That direwolf of my nephew would have stood a fair chance against them if only they didn’t breathe fire”

“But did Your Grace single-handedly slay the three beasts as the song puts it?” insisted Rickon.

“The song mentions nothing of the sort” said Sansa smiling nervously. Her brother’s tone was really worrying her.

“It is implied” Rickon affirmed.

“The catapults acquired by Lord Massey in Braavos finished them, Lord Stark, if you are so eager to know” the King finally spoke.

“I am” Rickon smiled.

“Yes, the machines made them fall” said a proud Lord Massey “I told the Lady Alysane when we were in Braavos that they would make a difference in the war. Do you remember, my lady?”

“Yes, I have a very good recollection of the facts, Lord Massey” answered the lady rolling her eyes again “But if you are curious, Lord Stark, you should ask Ser Gendry here. He chopped the head off one of the dragons himself.”

“Ser Gendry must be tremendously strong then” observed Lady Dustin who decided to join the discussion.

Ser Gendry’s ears started to get red once he realized all the eyes were on him.

“How was it?” asked Rickon, sounding serious for a change.

“The dragon was already half dead by the time it hit the ground, my Lord. I only ended its suffering.”

“It was very brave of you, Ser Gendry” said Sansa “It is no wonder His Grace knighted you”

“He was already a Knight before that. A man of the Brotherhood” the King glanced at her.

“Never trust a song” Rickon  laughed “The deeds of others are attributed to someone else and blatantly distorted because the true tale is too boring to be told by the fireplace. Isn’t that right, _Your Grace_?

"War and carnage are not meant to be entertaining, _Lord Stark_ "

“I beg to disagree. The best stories tell of battles and fighting. Don’t you agree...My Princess?

“I don’t, my lord. I prefer poetry”

“Then why do you always read war stories to us?”

“Because these are obviously the kind of stories you and Lord Arryn seem to favour” Sansa said riled, at last. She knew how uneasy Shireen felt under the scrutiny of strangers, and Rickon was only making things worse for her. “ _Will he ever shut his mouth?!_

“I feel sorry for the dragons though, they were most likely the last of their kind”, said Rickon quietly.

“There is no place for such beasts in the world that we live. Not anymore” said the King.

“I am quite fond of beasts, Your Grace. They are honest, they take what they want and make no excuses for it” continued Rickon rather bitterly “And they don’t lie to themselves”.

Sansa saw with the corner of her eye that Shireen had looked down, hiding her face behind her long dark hair.

“Shaggydog, for instance, is a fine loyal lad and only attacks my foes. I always know what to expect of him”

“You could have fooled me, _Lord Stark_. You seemed to have no control whatsoever over it” the King snorted.

“I saw no reason to stop him. He meant no harm”

“I told you on the road. I don’t want that beast of yours anywhere near me or my daughter”

“But the Princess is very fond of that beast of mine . Aren’t you...my Princess?”

 _“Is he drunk!?”_ Sansa thought, starting to panic.

“Shaggydog is not dangerous, Your Grace” Shireen murmured. Actually, it could be said that the Princess and the direwolf were quite fond of each other.

“Not dangerous?” said the King in mild disbelief “I saw it slaughtering a grown stag this morning”

“He has a taste for stags, _Your Grace_. And he was particularly hungry today. You must forgive him; it was a stag that killed his mother”

“I must do nothing, _Lord Stark_ ” the King slowly turned and glared at Rickon who did not even flinch.

“Your Grace!” Sansa nearly screamed. All the eyes abruptly turned towards her direction. Even some of the people at the lower tables raised their heads and stared at her.

“My Lady?”

“I was wondering if... your injury is causing you any pain.”

“I feel nothing”

“ Maester Alleras told me it required some stitches”

He only nodded in answer.

“I hope it doesn’t cause you any further trouble”

“A fall of a horse will certainly not kill our fearless King, sister....but we were talking about songs! Has the Princess mentioned that she is a gifted musician?”

The King turned to look at his daughter as if to confirm what Rickon had just said. Shireen focused on her food.

“Is it true?” asked the King seemingly interested in something for the first time since the feast had started.

“I like to play the harp, Your Grace. Lord Stark is being kind”

“No, I am not. You are good and should not be ashamed to say so” said Rickon.

“I am not ashamed of anything, my Lord”

“Perhaps, the Princess could play for us?” suggested Lord Massey.

“Not tonight. Not when there is a far superior musician present. And I believe I ate too much to play”

“So we have Lady Sansa to blame for that. The food is delicious, my dear lady. We feast well at your table” said Lord Manderly joyfully as he raised his cup “To Lady Sansa for such welcoming hospitality"

Those reunited around the table imitated him. Sansa felt a surge of affection for Lord Manderly and raised her cup towards him as well.

"It is not always like this around here though. If it were, I would be as fat as you, Lord Manderly.” Rickon patted the fat man’s large belly. Sansa wanted to throw her cup at her brother’s head but Lord Manderly looked far from offended and joined Rickon in a drunken laughter.

“Does the Princess like to dance as well?” asked Lord Massey.

“Yes. I find dancing very agreeable but I feel quite tired tonight. It has been a long day. Would you mind if I retire for the evening, Your Grace?”

“Not at all. Shall...I expect you for breakfast?”

“Yes, I would like that very much” Shireen nodded timidly “I bid you good night, my Lords and Ladies”

The Princess stood and trembled in surprise when all the people at the table did the same, bowing before her. The Kings presence demanded the protocol to be obeyed. She curtsied and walked to the main door, Ser Gendry silently walking close behind her. Sansa did not fail to spot the way Rickon followed the girl with his eyes, as if he wanted to grab her and make her stay.

Out of the blue, a servant removed the chair previously occupied by Shireen, leaving nothing between Sansa and the King. They glanced at each other uneasily before sitting again. However, Rickon remained standing.

“I think it is time for me to take my leave as well” 

“Come on, boy. I know you!” laughed Lord Manderly “The night has barely started for you”

“I would like to stay, my Lord. But the King and I have a meeting early in the morning. I don’t want to be late. Enjoy yourselves”

“I will go with you” said the Blackfish standing “It was a long journey. And I too will be attending this meeting, if you don’t remember, nephew”

Rickon nodded, looking discontented.

The two of them left and Sansa decided that she would confront her brother, first thing in the morning. She would have a serious conversation with him this time and it did not matter how miserable he felt regarding Shireen, his attitude was inexcusable and it would have to stop.

The singer was now playing Let Me Drink Your Beauty, a slow soft ballad. Lord Massey manage to convince Lady Alysane to dance with him and the two walked away to join the dancers. The Manderlys were too busy eating to engage in conversation. Once again, Sansa found herself alone with the King with nothing clever to tell him. She glanced at him again. Even though he was clean shaved, looking like a proper southron lord, he still displayed the sort of concealed aggressiveness that could be found in the creatures of the woods. “ _He probably longs to be with her. His Red Woman. He must miss her”_   Sansa wanted to meet the Lady Melisandre again and ask her more about this blessed future she saw in the flames. Her curiosity won out over her initial intention of being quiet.

“And the Lady Melisandre?”

“What about her?”

“Is she going to join us?”

“No, she retired to her rooms”

“She must be exhausted”

“She never is”

“Your Grace must be pleased”

“Why would I be pleased?”

“B-because...She returned to you and I heard she gives you good counsel.” _And warms your bed at night..._

"She is wise” he said irritated “But I often wish she was some senseless fanatic that I could despise”

They fell silent again. Sansa looked around, there was no one else sitting close enough to her now to start a conversation.

“And...How has winter treated the capital?”

"Interesting choice of topics for small talk, my Lady. You already asked me about my health, now you ask about the weather. What are you going to ask me next? Maybe my opinion on the state of the roads?”

Sansa forgot her embarrassment and felt angry.

“No, Your Grace! The weather it is!" She had meant to use a joking tone, but found she was too incensed to do so. "It is certainly a most engaging topic, don’t you think? Here in the North it seems to be all we talk about sometimes. It is even in our prayers. Princess Shireen will tell you that. How is the weather like in the south nowadays?” she said brusquely but already regretting her tone of voice.

“Cold” he said and sipped his wine.

“As cold as in the North or less cold?”

He did not answer.

"I see Your Grace has no wish to talk about the weather".

"None at all"

"Then what shall we talk about?"

“My daughter”

“Alright”

“She seems very close to your Lord Brother”

"She is. As she is to Lord Arryn. Theirs is a lovely friendship.”

“When did she learn how to play the harp?”

“Maester Alleras taught her. We all love to hear her play. My brother was not exaggerating her talents. She has been planning to play for you but I think she passed the opportunity because she does not like too large a crowd listening to her”

“I know” he knitted his brows “And when did she become fond of dancing?”

“After I taught her. It was a good exercise when we were trapped in the castle because of the snowstorms. She is a graceful dancer”

“And what else did you teach her?’ he asked in a derisive tone.

“Nothing that was not suitable for a princess”

“I don’t think that we would agree on the concept of suitability, my lady”

“Clearly” she regretted saying that as soon as the word left her mouth. He was looking intently at her again

The musician began to play The False and the Fair. “ _No, not this one_ ” Not the song it was playing when Lysa Arryn attempted to throw her through the Moon Door. Sansa had to get out of there.

“If you excuse me, I have to...go to the kitchens”

The King did not say anything and she rose. She was past the point of caring when she raced through the corridors and stepped in the kitchens, being greeted by the smell of roasting food. Some servants bowed to her and normally she would have smiled and asked if everything was in the right place. But tonight, she only sat down and hid her face in her hands.

What was wrong with her? She had half a mind to go to her rooms and sleep, though she doubted that sleep would come easily in her current mindset.

No. She would return to the Great Hall as expected until the King decided it was time for him to leave. What else was she to do?

“Lady Sansa?”

She sat up straight instantly, recognizing that awlful voice.

“Do you need anything, Lady Dustin?”

“It is I who should be asking you that” a sort of feral smile overtook the woman's features “I followed you here to personally tell you that I am very sorry for your loss”

“Loss?”

“Your husband. What a shocking death”

 _“What husband?”_ was her first thought, but then she remembered the farce of a marriage that was imposed on her and that would have been twice as worse if it wasn’t for Tyrion Lannister‘s inherent decency. He was always kind to her and tried to make her situation in King’s landing less insufferable. He did not succeed though but she was grateful to him now that she was older and knew better. He never tried to force himself on her and she appreciated that more than anything. She had not spared him a single thought in years and felt sorry for him but not enough to cry. 

“Dead, you say?" she was taken aback.

“Didn’t you know? The Dragon Queen surprised all by forging an alliance to him when they met in exile. She gave him one of her dragons to ride. One of the King’s catapults finished him, if you can trust the tales of the soldiers. They fell into the sea”

Sansa really did not know what to say. Maybe it was a good time to return to the great hall.

“Believe me when I say that widowhood is not half as bad as it sounds”

“ _Widow? I am no widow! I was never his wife!”_

“I see you are shocked. But I cannot tell if it is either from grief or joy?”

“I assure you that I am quite alright, Lady Dustin”

Why did the woman look so pleased in being unkind to her? They stared at each other.

"You are the perfect proper lady, aren’t you? Just like your mother”

"She raised me to be one"

“It is a pity that your feminine charms are wasted on that man”

“What man?”

“The King”

“I don’t want to charm the King” Sansa hated herself for blushing in front of that woman.

“Well, you should”

“And why is that?”

“For a start, I was told he is your husband-to-be”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "Fury burns" was inspired by the HBO Game of Thrones Season 2 DVDs. That part about Robert's Rebellion as told from Stannis' POV.
> 
> 2\. By catapults, I mean a very big roman ballista. Is there another name for it in English?
> 
> 3\. I really like Lady Dustin. She is one of the best surprises in ADWD.


	7. Hideaways

Shireen was never one to sleep much but sleep had completely forsaken her that night. There was a sort of restlessness in the air. She had been tossing and turning under the heavy fur blankets when she decided it was a good idea to check on Robert and drop by the library on the way back. Maybe some reading would help. Books had been her companions through many a sleepless night before and maybe this night they would do this kindness to her again. She put on her boots and wrapped herself on a warm bear-fur cloak Rickon gave her as a nameday present about two years ago. _“I hunted it myself”_ he said smugly. The Starks would always make a fuss over namedays and special occasions. On such instances, she couldn’t refrain from wondering in amusement what her father would have thought of all of it.

She opened the door and found poor Ser Gendry sitting on a bench snoring softly, his head leaning forwards. Her father had insisted that he accompanied her all the time for the remainder of their stay in the North. She smiled in sympathy for the Knight’s obvious tiredness and said there was no need for that. People treated her with sympathy and respect in Winterfell, there was no danger. “ _Do this for me, will you?_ ” Father insisted and she did not know whether to laugh or cry in finding that he was still exceedingly careful in regards of her. So she did not question him and Ser Gendry became her new shadow. It was difficult to imagine him as a slayer of dragons when he seemed to be so humble. Father had told her earlier that the White Cloak was part of her uncle Robert’s vast illegitimate offspring. “ _He looks just like Robert at his age_ ”, he said using the same old expression he wore when talking about any of his brothers. Aggravation, resentment and a bit of well disguised affection mingled in his speech making hard for a listener to tell if he liked or loathed them.

Shireen returned to her rooms and fetched a clean blanket, covering Ser Gendry, hoping that he could rest a little in spite of the uncomfortable position. The Knight indeed bore a strong resemblance to Edric, who was currently living in Dragonstone, according to Devan. “ _He will probably have a terrible backache in the morning. I shall ask Maester_ _ _Alleras_ for some ointment to alleviate his soreness”_. She felt guilty for preventing a weary man from a much needed rest but at least she could make things easier for him.

She quickly made her way towards Robert’s chambers. The corridors were empty; most people were surely still at the feast. She touched the warm walls as she walked and even after all those years their warmth still enthralled her like most things related to Winterfell did. When she arrived, Rickon led her through all its rooms and hidden places, from the crypts where the old Kings of Winter slept to the Godswood.

" _Are you...happy here?"_ Father had asked her that very morning. She was, though admittedly she never had expected to be. Not in a place populated by strangers, without Mother to shield her. But life in there was strangely serene, peaceful and yet full of activity. It would be harder to leave than she had thought.

She stopped at Robert’s door and pushed it slightly open, sneaking inside. He was sleeping soundly. She smiled warmly and tucked the furs and blankets around him, kissing his forehead. For some reason both she and Sansa liked to spoil him, to Rickon’s endless frustration. “ _He is already spoiled rotten!”_ Rickon would often complain. Yes, the Lord of the Vale could be very childish but he was also funny and could be very sweet when he wanted to be, which was frequent at least where she was concerned. He was the first friend she made after Patches had passed away. Initially, they bound together in mutual awe for the North and its people. “ _I heard my mother saying once that there was some sort of arrangement for me to be fostered by your father in Dragonstone. How is it like there?”_ He asked in an unhappy voice on one occasion. After she described the place and how the stone carved dragons gave her nightmares they came to the conclusion that Winterfell was not so bad after all. Besides, Sansa was always around to take care of them. It was a shame Robert had missed the feast. He would have loved it. The food was delicious, the music lovely and the conversation engaging. She knew how excited he was to see Lyanna Mormont again and show off his recently improved dancing skills.

She left his rooms making a list of things they could do together that do not require him to move too much. Maybe he would finally be interested in learning how to play cyvasse. Maester Alleras had taught her and she loved to play but nobody else seemed to share her enthusiasm for the game. Or perhaps she could convince Lyanna Mormont to pay Robert a visit. That would cheer him up.

Shireen went to the Library Tower, slowly climbing the many steps that led to it. It was her favourite place in Wintefell. Heavy wooden bookshelves filled with the knowledge collected throughout the centuries by several generations of Starks, made the place a small labyrinth. It had survived fire and ice and it was in an awful state of abandon before Maester Alleras reorganized everything with her help. She was proud of the work they did. “ _There are books here that cannot be found anywhere else, not even in the archives of the Citadel_ ”, the Dornish Maester confided to her. The place was her haven, much in the same way she often took refuge in Maester Cressen’s library in Dragonstone. Books were more precious to her than anything else after all, a constant source of delight and strength. In times of hardship, they were her sanctuary, in times of loneliness, the steadiest friends. Shireen ran her fingers through the lines of thick leather-bound books, searching for a volume that would distract her enough to let sleep come.

She had to admit that her inner agitation was not entirely related to Robert’s accident but more specifically to two other people, one of which was Father. She had spent most of the night listening to Lord Massey’s account of his deeds. It filled her with contentment and filial pride to hear others praise of him, although he detested any form of flattery or praise even when well deserved. It bothered him to the point in which it was best to make no remarks about his qualities or lack thereof. She thought that she would never have the chance to talk to him again when they said their farewell in that cold morning at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, so many years ago. “ _You have a duty too, to your mother. She needs you, now more than ever. Take care of her until....we meet again”_ he said looking at her straight in the eye as he always did. It seemed that she had spent most of her life saying goodbye to him and that time she could not help herself. Before she realized what she was doing she enveloped him in the tightest embrace her arms could muster. She knew how uncomfortable he felt being held like that, especially in front of other people, but he never rebuked her. He would let her hug him until her arms felt tired and he even caressed her head this time. It almost made her cry. Everything about him moved her so deeply. Perhaps it was because they were alike in many ways. There were never many words between them but a quiet companionship. They both were withdrawn, but whereas her awkwardness was obvious his was very well hidden behind scorn and aloofness. Shireen felt sorry for Sansa who did not know that. In fact, her friend looked so embarrassed around him it made Shireen search for words to make her feel better but she did not come up with anything remotely intelligent to say. It was amusing to see the usually confident and well-mannered young woman fidgeting so noticeably.

_“What am I going to do in King’s Landing without her?”_ Shireen started to wonder, and the initial joy over her father’s triumph gradually turned to apprehension at the notion of leaving. Sansa Stark had welcomed her with a spontaneity she was not used to. Shireen was mistrustful of her in the early days of her arrival. Sansa laughed and acted as if there was nothing to worry about.  Shireen knew her friend sometimes struggled to keep her calm, poised, friendly demeanor; it was a sort of mask she needed to wear in order to keep going. But she was touchingly devoted to Winterfell and its people and had a caring nature that made it difficult not to be charmed by her. It was her idea for them to share a room. “ _It will keep us warm”_ , she said. It made them close as if they had known each other all their lives. She admired the older girl greatly. It felt inadequate to have Sansa suddenly addressing her as Princess.

“ _Princess_.” Shireen never felt like one. She wanted to correct people as soon as they started to call her like that in Dragonstone. Princesses should be beautiful and courteous like Sansa who was graced with all the attributes evoked by such a title. Shireen knew without being told that she lacked both looks and grace, that she was deemed less of a person after the greyscale bout left a permanent mark on her face for the whole world to see it.“ _Nonsense! You are a Baratheon! The princess of the Seven Kingdoms and one day all of those who despised you will fall on their knees begging for your favour!_ ” She could almost hear Mother’s voice saying this words to her again. She did not know how to say to Queen Selyse, always proud and strong, that she did not want people to beg her anything. She did not like to be alone but she would often choose the solitude, when there was no one around to be offended by her presence. In Dragonstone, she knew that Father, in one of the many concessions he made just for her regardless of how greatly it annoyed him, kept Patches around in order to appease her seclusion. But the fool’s erratic behaviour would frighten her at times and she could never carry a proper conversation with him. She also remembered lovely times spent playing with Edric and Devan, but the war separated them all too soon. Before that, Maester Cressen was always ready to talk and comfort her but even as a child she could perceive that the old kindly man pitied her. She never knew how to react to pity.

Pity or disgust were the customary reactions to her face and Shireen was quite good in reading those emotions on other people’s expressions. But in Winterfell they did not look at her in revulsion. Actually, some people there displayed worse disfigurements than hers. War and winter had left their marks on everybody, some visible, others not so much. She could not quite grasp how human beings were able to live and go about their everyday chores in bodies that were so broken. One of the gatekeepers lacked both his legs. The Blacksmith had part of his face scarred as a result of a sword blow during the battle against the Boltons. One of the kitchen servants had no nose and just one eye but a kind smile and would often give her lemon cakes in between meals. Several of the wildling children had lost an ear or a couple of fingers to frostbite, before they were settled in the castle. Even Rickon had many battle scars on his chest. She noticed them not long ago, when she caught him and Robert swimming in one of the hot springs that surrounded the castle. They invited her to join them but she promptly refused, preferring to seat under one of the heart trees with a book on her lap and Shaggydog by her side, flipping the pages idly while stealing glances at Rickon, blushing furiously when he noticed it. It was odd that a boy her age was already considered a hardened warrior and had scars to show it.

“ _Rickon_ ” He was the one to blame for her lack of sleep. She had not talked to him properly since he left Robert in his bed and was half dragged away by his uncle, Ser Brynden. They had an argument the day before. She had never raised her voice at anyone in her life and she did not know she was able to do it until yesterday. The unfairness of his words made her angry. “ _So you do want to leave, is that it? You will simply leave and forget everything about...Shaggydog? And the children?! What about Robert? What do you think he will do without you around to put some sense in his head!? Don’t you think about them?”_ He could be so unreasonable sometimes.

She longed to know if he was all right. He probably was. “ _If the Others ever manage to cross the Wall the only things that will remain will be Old Nan and Rickon Stark”_ , Osha always jested. He had spent half the night ignoring her presence and the other half teasing her and deep down she knew that she deserved it. She was not even angry at him but Sansa certainly was on her behalf. Sansa time and again scolded him for his “ _dreadful, intolerable, displays of wildness_ ” but he never paid much attention to it. “ _If she talked less maybe I would make some effort to listen_ ” he joked once. Shireen, on the other hand, hoped he never changed. She found his impulsiveness refreshing, his effusiveness endearing. He was so passionate about the things he liked, so obvious in his affections. She could never bring herself to sustain a serious facade around him long enough.

He was always so gentle to her. He had been since the start. But in the last few months something had changed. At first it was too elusive to grasp and she tried to dismiss it. She would catch him staring at her often, in a curious way, as if he had found something very interesting. Then he started to use any excuse to touch her. They were having dinner when he began to steal bits of food from her plate as it was his costume. She would usually shove his arm playfully and he would stop but that night he took her hand in his, amazed at the disparity between their sizes. “ _Your hand is so small. Look! Half the size of mine. I suppose you don't need much food"_ he said. She had once complained of cold feet and was surprised when he removed her boots and started to rub her feet. The problem was that his hands felt really good, “ _Too good_ ”. But everybody was there and she did not want to give the impression to be enjoying herself too much.

In the following days there was a disquieting alteration in his manner. When he talked to her, it was in a serious tone, averting her eyes. She was stunned to realize that he became shy around her. He would laugh and converse with everybody but her and started to avoid her presence for no apparent reason. They were reading in front of the fire as they habitually did, using Shaggydog as a cushion, when everything changed for good. Robert had fallen asleep with his head resting on her lap and then, without warning, Rickon gently kissed the corner of her mouth. She looked at him in disbelief as he caressed her hair and leaned closer. Her reaction was to turn her face, purposefully showing the greyscale. He did not mind and still searched for her lips but she jumped to her feet and ran away. She heard both boys voicing their objection: Robert because his head hit the floor and Rickon...what did Rickon want?

She knew he cared about her in a protective sort of way, much in the same way he cared about Sansa and Osha. She knew that he would not play with her emotions but why would he kiss her? Why would he even want to? There were dozens of pretty girls in Winterfell that followed him with avid eyes wherever he was, even though he seemed unaware of them. At first she thought it was his idea of a practical joke, he had an odd sense of humour. Or maybe she was the closest girl around who was not his sister, a wildling or a servant and he was bored. Or he was curious to know if the greyscale had made the rest of her as numb as half her face. But she ignored those thoughts because she knew different, she knew him. He would not treat her like that. So what did he want from her?

The next day she was having a hard time trying to focus on her lessons which never happened. Maester Alleras managed to make even the dullest part of the history of the Seven Kingdoms interesting. Robert was there complaining about “ _the ridiculous amount of reading_ ” assigned by that “ _Dornish tyrant_ ” when Rickon arrived, late as usual. Shireen blushed and did not dare to look at him as he sat close to her, grabbed her hand under the table and did not let go until the lecture about the War of the Ninepenny Kings was over. She did not know she could move so quickly until she found herself in her chambers, her thoughts in turmoil. She wanted to talk to Sansa, who was a good listener and had the talent to quieten her fears and doubts, but Shireen did not know where to start and had no wish to cause trouble between the Stark siblings.

She decided to avoid Rickon the following days but the soft kiss was branded on her skin. And there was the small inconvenience that Rickon Stark absolutely refused to be ignored. She made sure that he never had the chance to get her alone, she would follow Sansa or Osha everywhere, or, when they were not around, she would hide in the Library Tower. It puzzled her that even though she was often surrounded by books, there was not a single one that could begin to explain her own feelings to herself. For the first time, books would not do. She should have chosen a less obvious hideaway because he easily found her. Shireen felt her heart in her mouth and held the book she was reading close to her chest, like a knight would hide behind a shield. He looked so tortured she could not hold his stare. She turned her back to him as he came closer. “ _I did not mean to offend you...I won’t do it again...if you don’t want it..._ ” he whispered “ _but can you honestly say that...you feel nothing?_ ” She felt so many things for him it was hard to name them. She turned slowly to face him. He touched the good side of her face and she gripped his wrist, not sure if it to put it closer or to move it away. His touch awakened in her a longing for something she could not name, sensations she could not resist, and some forgotten part of her seemed to come to life. There was a strange flutter in her stomach, her breathing quickened and this time she let him kiss her. He leaned in and his warm, soft lips brushed lightly against hers. It was awkward at first but it didn't take long for her to start to enjoy it. “ _I’ve never done...this...and I don’t know...if I am......Do you...like it?_ ” he asked after a while. She only nodded because her mouth seemed to have forgotten how to articulate words. He gave her a bright smile and held her and she had never felt so close to anyone. She could feel he was trembling as much as she was and a rush of happiness so powerful that it was like an ache took over her. But the moment was completely ruined when she took a good look at him and was conscious of how handsome he was. His nearness made her painfully aware of herself, of her small body and marred face. It was then she realized he could not possibly want her. Not really. He was probably confused because of her imminent leaving. She cried herself to sleep that night, doing her best to keep quiet and not disturb Sansa.

Shireen was glad for a normal simple life. She felt useful. She had her books and her harp and friends. Her happiness would be crowned by her father’s return and she did not dare to hope for more. She had learned not to long for things that are not meant to be hers and be contented with what she was given. But Rickon insisted on tormenting her.

She decided to avoid him again but he did not permit it. She was on her way to her rooms when he pulled her hastily into one of the many disused chambers of the castle and confronted her. “ _Why do you insist on running away from me!?_ ” he looked so frustrated “I _know you were enjoying it! I was too...All I think about is doing it again...”_ She felt the same but she was not about to tell him that. H e promptly ceased talking and pulled her against him, kissing her intently. It was different from their tender, innocent early attempts. She felt him part her lips and tentatively slid his tongue inside her mouth. She froze, not sure of what to do but soon an involuntary moan escaped through her lips. Her hands slowly moved up his shoulders until her fingers entangled in his unkempt hair. His hands made their way to the small of her back and she could feel their scorching heat even through the thick fabric of her gown. Their lips moved slowly together. She felt his chest move with each breath he took. He pressed his body against hers and she felt something unusual rubbing against her. He moaned as if in pain, but it was no pain at all, she could tell. He stopped kissing and looked down blushing. He asked her to wait for him there only to return a couple of moments later looking slightly relieved. He would do that frequently on the days that followed “ _Wonderful, silly, confusing, few days_ ”. They would find a way to be alone and indulge in this new sort of happiness they had discovered together.

Robert caught them once. She never felt so embarrassed. She searched for him later to implore him to not tell anything, especially not to Sansa. “ _I would never tell anyone. I am just angry because kissing was the only thing I have done that Rickon had not_.” Only Robert could make her laugh in a situation like that.

Shireen sighed and realized she had been standing for quite a while holding Maester Thomax's a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons. It had beautiful colourful illustrations that she liked to admire. The story of the Targaryens was fascinating. It was a shame that a once powerful house was as extinct as the dragons that made their fame. It was a good book as any. Not wishing to return to her rooms yet she sat on a rug in front of the fire. If there was a fire cracking in the Library it was because Maester Alleras had been there not long ago. She read a few pages but could not really concentrate on what she was reading. “ _Maybe another book?”_ There was an  anthology of old northern songs in there somewhere. She liked to read the lyrics and sing them in her head. She was about to stand up and search for it when she realized with a start that she was not alone.

“I knew if I waited around here long enough you would eventually appear but I didn’t expect to find you already here...” Rickon said as he lazily moved closer and sat next to her. He was mystified by her love for reading. He once asked why the activity was so appealing to her. “ _Everything seems easier to understand after you finish reading a book”_ she answered. At least this was true in the past.

“And here you are all by yourself, without your new hound. I saw him dozing off at your door. Nice way of watching out for your safety”

“He is too fatigued” it was not Ser Gendry’s fault he had to guard her “I didn’t want to disturb him.”

“What would your beloved father say?” he closed her book and took it from her hands, putting it aside. He came closer and she saw the corner of his mouth turn upwards into a half grin as he caressed the fur of her cloak on the area of her shoulders “I hunted it down for you” he said, and they both smiled at the memory.

“I made this for you” she had just noticed that he was wearing the doublet she made for him just because she wanted to give him something. Sansa said he would never wear anything so fancy but he wore it quite often. She touched the elaborate direwolf patterns she embroidered on it and he covered her hand with his. There was a sort of tortured tenderness between them.

“Are you still angry with me?” She asked remembering their little quarrel of the day before. If she could judge the accusatory tone in which he addressed her at the feast, he was. “ _Right in front of Father.”_

“I was never angry with you” he sighed and raised his other hand to caress her jawline with his thumb. “And you? Are you angry with me? You have reason to be” he murmured apprehensive.

“I am worried about you" she clarified "At the feast...”

“Yes, I think I got a little carried away. Sansa will have my head in the morning” he looked away and gave a sad smile “She will end up hating me anyway when she learned what I’ve done so I might as well do as I please” he looked so unusually bitter.

“What are you talking about? What have you done?” she looked at him worried.

“Everyone will know soon but...” he pulled her against his side “...I can tell you now if...you...kiss me and...do that again...”

She blushed and she knew he had noticed judging by his slow satisfied smirk. They ended their argument of the day before with kisses and in the middle of it she bit his lower lip which made him moan and kiss her harder. That time not only did they kiss, but touched each other too. She never considered her small breasts as a particular source of pleasure but the feeling of his hands on them set her skin ablaze. “ _I bet they would fit perfectly into my mouth...”_ he whispered while kissing her neck but she could tell by the way he stopped himself and looked away that he did not mean to say that aloud.

“You shouldn't talk about it like that” she looked at the rug, her heart beating faster “It's not proper...”

“Please... don't. Stop trying to sound like Sansa” he said framing her face gently with his large hands. “It's not you.”

“And who am I?” she looked at him earnestly.

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead on hers. “You are....” his voice trembled and he swallowed hard “You are different.... You are unlike any girl I’ve ever known... I think about you all the time...” his voice was no more than a whisper. One of his hands slid to the small of her back, pulling her even closer to him.

_“He is so warm”_ She touched his face letting her fingers caress his short soft beard. They remained silent for a while; the only sounds were their heavy breathing and the crackling of the fire. And then he lowered his mouth to hers. She gave in to the kiss completely. They would probably never have the chance to do that again and the thought made her desperate. She was panting and he took advantage of it to slide his tongue between her lips. She could taste a hint of the wine he had drunk earlier.  Her hands shaped his large chest, and she smiled at a reminiscence of his younger self, when she had no idea he would become so tall and strong. When they met she marvelled at how such a slender boy could order a wild thing like Shaggydog the way he did. She thought he was a sorcerer like in the stories. He laughed hard at that. " _Do I look like a sorcerer?_ ” he asked. He didn’t. He looked like a Prince. He is a man now, the young Warden of the North, and soon he would have to marry someone, someone beautiful and strong who would give him many sons to carry the Stark name. He would love them as fiercely as he did everything else. She saw him laughing with Wyla Manderly during the feast. They look good together. They belonged to the same world. Maybe when she left he would devote his attention to the other girl. Lord Manderly would certainly appreciate a union between their families. Shireen fought back tears that made her throat tightened and squeezed him in her arms, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I should steal you, wildling way” he groaned.

She bit her lips trying not to laugh .

“Not even... _him_...could take you away from me” He said with contempt.

By him he meant Father, of course. She dreaded the notion of him ever finding out about them. He would be terribly disappointed. “ _Or downright furious_ ” The thought was too embarrassing, too unsettling to even be considered.

“I am not making excuses...nor lying to myself ” she whispered, remembering Rickon's insunuations “I do want to be with my father”

“And I will never understand why!” he said in almost desperation “A man who barely talks to you, who has been away from you for most of your life...”

How could she explain it to Rickon? The truth was that she needed to be with him too, a part of her craved to get reacquainted with him. He was an essential part of who she was. They shared a bond, a natural affinity. 

“I thought I was never going to see him again. I have a duty to him”

“We have a duty to no one but ourselves. Why bother when no one ever stays? All the people we care about sooner or later leave us”

She felt her heart sink when he talked like that. Like the little boy who was left behind. She knew he resented his family for it even though, in a conscious level, he was aware that none of the Starks had ever meant to leave him. She knew that, of the few things that frightened him, being alone was the most appalling. He needed the reassurance of those he loved around him and, in that aspect, she was the strong one. Loneliness did not scare her at all. Unable to stop herself she kissed him. She felt his surprise in the stiffness of his body, it was usually him who kissed her first, but it didn’t take long for him to answer. A movement at the door caught her attention.

“Rickon!”

Shireen stiffened in shock as she recognized Ser Brynden’s voice. There was an unspoken warning in his tone but Rickon’s only reaction was to deepen the kiss as if not ready to give up on their closeness. She pressed her lips together and placed her hands on his chest, trying to put some distance between them. That finally made him stop. He sighed deeply and rose to his feet, carrying her with him. He turned  towards his uncle making sure that his body hid her from the Blackfish's reproachful gaze.

"Uncle?" he answered trying to calm his breathing.

She felt lightheaded, but somehow she managed to make her feet move and walked past the Blackfish without glancing at him.

"Have you lost your mind, boy!?" was the last thing she heard before blindly running down the staircase that led to the corridors, knowing that sleep was not likely to claim her anytime soon.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. What can I say? I like the idea of a wild, passionate, virgin Rickon and a mistrustful, clueless but loving Shireen.  
> 2\. I deliberately chose not to mention the wildlings views on greyscale.  
> 3\. Back to Sansa, next.


	8. A long day

Had Sansa seen one of the Others in front of her she would not have been more stupefied. Her initial reaction was to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, wondering where Lady Dustin was getting at with this. But the obnoxious woman kept on talking and Sansa kept on listening. For a long moment, Sansa blankly stared at her. Then little by little the full meaning of her words sank in and everything stood still. She could not even blink when she felt a primeval sense of fright taking over her senses and then it was like invisible cold fingers were closing around her throat, slowly cutting off her breathing. Feeling a little dizzy, she furtively took hold of the edge of the table to steady herself. Her next impulse was to run away and lock herself in her chambers. But she would only succeed in waking Shireen up and making her worry.

“Yes, your brother sold you to Stannis Baratheon” Lady Dustin continued with a condescending smile “Didn’t he disclose this little piece of information to you?”

“ _He didn’t._ ” Not with words, at least. But she knew there was something upsetting him. He had not been himself since the day the raven came from King’s Landing with the news of the end of the war. “ _He means to take everything away from me, everything that matters”_ , Rickon had said. At least she was included in the category of things that mattered, Sansa thought sulkily. “ _Why had he not told me?!_ ”

“I have been watching you since my arrival and I can tell that you were kept unfairly ignorant of your own situation” the woman looked at her from head to foot and smiled with contentment “Aren’t I doing you a favour by finally letting you known of your own fate?”

“ _Please, shut up!_ ” Sansa had to find Rickon and hear an explanation from his mouth. There ought to be an explanation! “ _He would not do that to me!”_ When did he even have the chance to....to _sell_ her? And why would the King be interested in it when he had the Red Woman? Her thoughts were running wild and there were hundreds of questions she wanted to ask but she would certainly not utter them to this woman who had that disgustingly pleased expression on her face.

“I was here when the pact was sealed. Stannis Baratheon agreed to marry one of the Stark sisters, whichever of you was found first, to please the North. Your brother forsook his claim to the throne in recognition for Stannis Baratheon victory over the Boltons. I think he was more interested in gold to reconstruct this broken ruin you call home than in finding you, so he swore an oath recognizing that man as his sovereign. He had surprised us all with his ferocity on the battlefield but he was a child back then. He would have sworn anything they wanted” Lady Dustin sighed as if she felt some compassion “Winter was already setting in. It grew worse with each passing day. This place was the last hope for many, everything else, including finding the whereabouts of the bride, should be postponed to a friendlier season. It was already of common knowledge that neither you nor your sister were in King’s Landing. I heard the impostor the Boltons tried to pass for her died of frostbite on her way to the Wall, before she even had the chance to meet your bastard brother and be exposed for the fraud she was.”

“ _Please, shut up! Shut up!_ ” Sansa was told the sad tale of her friend Jeyne Poole, who was just as naive and as much as a dreamer as she used to be, like two young girls ought to be. How they fed each other’s illusions and little vanities! The plans they have made for when Sansa was Joffrey’s Queen! They were confined together after Father was arrested for alleged treason and the Lannisters had butchered each and every one the Starks’ servants. Afterwards, when Sansa was brought to the presence of Queen Cersei and her Small Council, she heard Littlefinger saying he would find a place for Jeyne and the only familiar face that was left about her in the Red Keep was taken away as well. “ _What place had he found for her? In one of his brothels?_ ” Sansa felt nauseated when she thought of that. She heard the story of how the bastard of Bolton made Jeyne scream in agony every night after they were married. All of them had listened and done nothing. That could have easily been her fate had she not been born a Stark, too valuable a hostage. “ _I was given to a Lannister instead_.” It was not fair. They were just children, all of them. “ _We had no chance against them_ ”. Listening to Lady Dustin talking about Jeyne and Rickon like that made Sansa so enraged she felt she was going to be sick.

“So, since your real sister has never been found, the honour of marrying the King was left to you. Oh how the entire North rejoiced when the old fish brought you back to Winterfell. A Stark. Their future Queen. All those inane Lords were half in love with you. Your uncle swore by the Seven and the Old Gods that your marriage was never consummated and all those fools believed him”.

“ _Because it is the truth!_ ”

“I think it wounded the northern pride to even conceive the thought of a precious Stark being deflowered by a Lannister dwarf. But I said that no man could have been married to a pretty little thing like you and kept his hands to himself” continued Lady Dustin, her smile a cynical twist.

She would not give that woman the satisfaction of seeing that her words affected her. But Lady Dustin’s shrewd eyes told Sansa, that she was well aware that her apparent composure was merely a poorly built facade. She swallowed her tears; she would not allow a single one to fall from her eyes, regardless of the lump in her throat.

“But if it is true that you are unspoiled, worry not. People here seem to think you excel at everything you do. It will certainly be the same with fucking” it was odd to hear a Lady talking like Osha. “ _No, there is no comparison. Osha is nobler_ ” Lady Dustin came closer; placing her hand on the same table Sansa was using to support herself. “ _Her nails look like claws_ ”.

“I bet Stannis Baratheon will never leave you alone. He will put a brat after the other in your belly. This is all he needs from you anyway”

For a moment Sansa held her gaze and she was stunned at the bitter hostility she saw there. “ _What on earth have I done to this woman?_ ” she thought amazed.

“Until the years strip you of youth and beauty, of course” Lady Dustin pointed out “Time is the most ruthless God of all, did you know that? It devours everything” the woman chuckled “But of course, there is always the possibility that he will die first and you will be free of him. He is twice your age”

There was a long silence. Sansa was dimly aware of the servants coming and going, some of them most certainly had listened to the entire conversation and by tomorrow morning the whole of the castle would know. “T _hey will know that my own brother has been making a fool out of me_ ” She had to show some composure, she had to say something.

“Nothing else to say, my Lady?" Sansa was very proud of herself. Nothing in her voice revealed the utter shock she felt, even though her hands were slightly shaking and a little sweaty.

“I’ve always considered any wedding a regrettable spectacle, worse than a beheading. You remove someone’s head and this is it. No more suffering. No more nothing. A marriage though....it is for life. A lifetime at the mercy of a man who we can only pray will treat us with some measure of kindness and I honestly think you shall not find that in your betrothed” the woman finally looked at her with a shadow of sympathy as if she understood something of Sansa’s puzzlement, as though she had known her own share of it, but it was soon gone.

“Oh my, we have been here for a long while, haven’t we? It is time to go back to the feast. Your betrothed must be wondering where you are. I hope you have a good night and a happy long marriage, Lady Sansa” the woman threw her a spiteful look and walked to the door.

“ _Say something!”_

“Lady Dustin!” Sansa said hastily. The servants were looking. “ _Say something now!_ ” The woman stopped and looked at her. “When I am Queen, I shall not forget the favour you have done me tonight” Sansa said in a calm clear voice, feeling short of air when she realized that, if Lady Dustin’s words were true, Queen was what she was going to be. But the woman didn’t cringe at such an empty threat, dropped a mock courtesy and left.

Sansa let herself fall into a bench, letting out a stunned gasp. She was dominated by a long forgotten sense of trepidation. Was this the blessed future the Lady Melisandre foresaw in the fire? It was hard to believe that she had just witnessed to Lady Dustin discoursing about her prospects so callously, in the very same place where the Red Woman had reassured her not long ago.

Sansa tried to make sense of it all but she just didn’t know what to think or how to feel. She supposed that part of her was still too bewildered to fully assimilate what she had just learned. But suddenly, a number of things became very clear. That was why all the Lords were gathering in Winterfell. They have all come to bear witness to a royal wedding. And she could tell Stannis Baratheon was extremely discontented. But if he was dissatisfied with her specifically or with the entire notion of being forced into a marriage with a stranger to gratify the North Lords, the people who supported his claim when no one else would, she didn’t know. But of course they would want compensations; of course they would want something in return. She just didn’t expect to be part of the bargain.

"Seven save me” she whispered to herself. Taking a few deep breaths and ignoring the insistent throbbing in her ears, Sansa fought back the shock and commanded herself to be calm or at least to look like she was. “ _They tend to ask fewer questions when you look calm_ ”, Littlefinger told her on one occasion. Although she hated to admit it, she had learned a few precious lessons from him. She ought to be rational. The first lucid thought that came into her mind was that she had to find Rickon. She deserved to hear a complete explanation from his lips. The second thing she considered was that, in spite of her perplexity, she was still the Lady of Winterfell and it was her responsibility to see to the King and the other guests.

Her knees nearly gave out as she stood. There were concerned glances aimed at her from every direction and that made her feel a little better. The servants in Winterfell had always been loyal. She smiled and praised them for the wonderful work they were doing that night and left. As if her feet had a will of their own, Sansa found herself back at the entrance of the Great Hall. Standing in the shadows of the corridor, she observed the place for a long time with no wish to step in. Everything looked the same as when she left. The Manderlys were still drinking; Lord Massey and Lady Alysane were still dancing. She spotted Osha on a corner talking to Lord Commander Tollett and hoped her friend was not pestering the man too much. “ _Do they all know?_ ” she wondered sweeping her eyes through the place. To her immense relief, Lady Dustin was nowhere to be seen. But he was. The King still sat on his high chair, staring out across the Great Hall.

“ _Stannis Baratheon..._ ” She let out an unsteady sigh and felt her cheeks burn. He was definitely not the sort of man she ever imagined herself marrying to. She respected him as her sovereign but as a man... He was too intimidating and brooding and proud. Perhaps he was a brave just man, but he looked so vexed all the time. “ _There must be some mistake_ ” She was aware that, when it came to marriage, she never had many reasons to be hopeful and an arranged match was what she had always expected. She had been promised several times before. The Tyrells promised her to Willas. Littlefinger promised her to Harry Hardyng, he even considered Robert as a potential husband to her, which made her laugh really hard anytime she thought about it. She was promised to a Baratheon once. Joffrey Baratheon, or rather Joffrey Lannister. There was not a single drop of Baratheon blood running in his veins. He was nothing like this harsh man who kept throwing her off balance from the very first moment they met.

Sansa realized she could not lurk around the threshold forever and she made her way through the overcrowded Great Hall without further delay. She was doing fine walking and exchanging pleasantries with the guests along the way but then she met his gaze and she had to stop. Her eyes clashed with his deep stare for an instant before she could finally reach the high table. She smiled to Ser Devan and tried to sit with all the grace she could muster, which was not much at the moment.

“Your Grace” her voice didn’t sound like her own. She had no idea how to behave.

“Was there any problem in the kitchens?” she didn’t like his tone. Why must he always address her with such disdain?

“No, Your Grace. Why do you ask?”

“It took you long enough to return”

“ _What’s the matter Your Grace, did you miss the attentions of your bride?”_

For a heartbeat she seriously considered telling him everything but his gaze revealed his increasing impatience and contempt. If it was such a burden for him, why did he stay? The King could act as he pleased! A servant tried to refill his cup, but he dismissed him by covering the rim of it with his very large hand. Sansa felt her throat dry out. He was indeed a very large man, tall with broad shoulders and long limbs. " _He will put a brat after the other in your belly."_ Sansa took deep breaths and raised her cup with a trembling hand for the servant to refill it, feeling an urgent need for something that could ease her inner agitation.

"I can see that Your Grace is not very fond of our wine" she said "Would you prefer something else to drink?"

"This is fine."

“Fine? Yes. To answer your previous question, everything is just fine”

She felt his judging eyes on her as she drained her cup in a single gulp. It burned its way down her throat and into her stomach and did little to settle her nerves. She had never acquired a taste for the beverage or found much comfort in it. “ _Maybe it has to be consumed in large quantities for a person to really feel its benefits_ ” Like King Robert and Cersei Lannister used to do. The smell of wine clung to the Hound as if it was his natural scent. It seemed to give them some sort of strength.” _No, it was only good to mask their weakness”_.

“There is something I feel I must ask you” he said after a while.

There were much to be said, things that needed to be discussed, yet she could not bring herself to voice them. It was a good thing that he had finally decided to address the subject.

“Your Grace?” she braced herself for his question.

“Is there a particular reason why my daughter has no chamber of her own?”

“Your daughter?” Had she heard right? He wanted to continue their conversation about Shireen? But then, he had known about this betrothal for a long time now, this piece of information was new only to her. On the other hand, it was only natural that he wanted to know more about his daughter.

“Yes. The only daughter I have, the Princess Shireen. She told me earlier that she shares a chamber with my Lady”

“Yes”

“If I am not mistaken Winterfell is one of the largest strongholds in the Seven Kingdoms. I am sure you could have disposed of a chamber to the Princess of this realm.” She didn’t miss his accusatory tone. What was he trying to imply?

“It felt wrong to let her sleep by herself” Sansa said crossly “She was afraid. She had trouble sleeping...”

“Sleep never came easily to her”

“She had awful nightmares, often about dragons trying to devour her...”

Shireen would wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and ashamed for disturbing other person’s sleep and Sansa would talk to her or simply hold her hand until the sweet girl closed her eyes again. The truth was that both girls slept better knowing the other was there.

“Yes. Ever since she was a child she had been plagued by such nightmares” he sighed heavily “Any child growing up in Dragonstone would be afflicted by bad dreams”

“But it grew worse and she started to have nightmares about dragons trying to devour...you”

He finally showed emotion on his face other than disdain and impatience.

“When she came to live here, she was so sad, the loss of her Queenly Mother and the fool, Patches, was heavy on her heart. The nights were long and cold. And she missed you. I thought she would be more at ease with another person around and...”

“Why? Because you pitied her?” He grimaced.

“I do not pity her!” Sansa had finally reached the limits of her tolerance “I knew how it felt!” She knew very well what was like to be away from home and family, lost amidst strangers with no hope to ever see a dear one again. “I feel deep affection and esteem for Shireen.... _Princess_ Shireen!” she corrected herself quickly “And I missed it too...”

“Missed what?” he glared at her.

“The company of another Lady”

At the beginning it distressed Sansa greatly to see Winterfell populated by wildlings and people she had never seen before. They were good people, she soon learned, grateful to be in a fortress of such greatness, and they had much to teach on how to survive in the extreme cold. However, she often missed the delicate cultured conversation that can only be found in another lady of her station.

“And we are close in age” Sansa said in an attempt to justify the close companionship she shared with his daughter but it only made the King move uncomfortably in his chair.

“I noticed”

He had looked a bit troubled when she revealed her age this morning. He was many years her senior, a hard man, a seasoned warrior. He had been married before. Was he silently comparing her to his former wife? Shireen often described Selyse Florent as a remarkable woman. And there was the Lady Melisandre to consider as well. " _In his eyes I must be a foolish girl_ ” It all made sense now. He was not impressed in the least by his bride.

She was startled when he abruptly stood up. The music and laughter vanished, those who were sitting rose to their feet as well. He gave a brief nod to the guests and walked past her muttering “My Lady” on the way. And then he was gone. Ser Devan had to run a little to follow him. So swift was his exit that neither Sansa nor Lord Manderley had the chance to stand up.

The music was soon playing again as loudly and cheerfully as before. This feast was probably going to last for a while and it was all too well because the people of Winterfell deserved to enjoy themselves. But Sansa wasted no more time and left the merry hall behind her, walking through the corridors towards Rickon’s chambers. She didn’t care if she had to throw him off his bed. He had no right to be peacefully asleep when she was not. To her surprise she found his room empty. Where was he? He left earlier with an excuse of going to bed. It didn’t matter; she was determined to wait for him for as long as she had to. There was a flagon of wine on the table by the fireplace. She poured a little of it into a cup and sat on a chair. It didn’t take long for him to arrive. He was shoved inside the chamber by a very livid Uncle Brynden. It was obvious they were having an argument.

“You have no right to interfere, old man!” Rickon snarled.

“You are worse than Edmure! Do you want to start another war, boy!?”

The two of them stop dead when they saw her. She finally understood the look on Uncle’s face. It was not sadness, it was regret.

“Sansa?” Rickon asked hesitating.

“Did you know that when they forced me to marry Tyrion Lannister they did not tell me a thing? Everyone knew it but me” she said in a detached way, as she usually did when talking about her time in King’s Landing “Cersei Lannister dressed me with the prettiest gown and made her maids scrub me and bath me in flower scents. I begged her not force me to go but it was no use. They took me to the Sept and Joffrey said he would be my father that day. I wanted to gouge his eyes out for daring to mention Father but what could I do? That hateful creature said he could marry me to the pig boy if he wanted to. In fact, he threatened to bed me every once in a while and use me to make some bastards”

She could see rage and sorrow on their faces as she spoke. _“Good! Let them feel remorse!”_

“I could not run, I could not breathe. Tyrion Lannister treated me with courtesy and promised not to consummate the marriage until I was willing, which was only going to happen the day the Wall melted. But I spent many nights wondering...Is this the night he will go back on his word? Is this what the rest of my life will be like?” she slowly rose and faced them “Can you imagine my surprise when Lady Dustin, of all people, tells me that the two men I love the most, trust the most, decided to treat me in the same fashion as the Lannisters !?”

They did not dare to meet her eye.

“You could have told me about this last year, last month, yesterday or this morning...” she emptied her cup in a long swallow “I have known from the cradle that one day a husband would be chosen for me. But I thought that you would have the decency of talking to me before anything was decided. Gods, I believed you would not want me to marry at all...”

“And I don’t!” Rickon cried out.

“Then why have you not told me?!" she yelled and threw her cup at his head but he moved to the side just in time. It hit the stone floor making a clang sound and it bounced a few times before stopping on a corner.

“I thought I would never have to tell you” he said holding his hands up as if trying to calm a wild horse.

She looked at him in amazement, wishing there was another cup nearby to throw at him.

“You see, when I swore my oaths I didn’t do it in good faith. I thought Stannis Baratheon was never going to make it. I thought, I will accept his gold, we certainly need it. The Lords will be pleased with the notion of a northern Queen and will stop with this King in the North nonsense. They will leave me alone. I never wanted Robb to be King in the first place and I certainly didn’t want to be one myself! Why would any sane man want it? I thought Stannis Baratheon was as mad as the rest of his opponents. He would probably be torn to pieces by the Lannisters before setting a foot in King’s Landing and I would never have to see his sour face again. I thought: let them kill each other! I don’t care! I thought there was no way he was going to survive to see the end of the war. But the son of a bitch did. And now he is here _to take what is rightfully his_ ” Rickon made a precise impersonation of the King “Until a couple of months ago I believed that you and Shireen would stay here with me forever. I thought all would turn out for the best but nothing went the way I thought it would!"

“And in the middle of all those thoughts of yours...have you stopped for a single moment to consider what this agreement would mean to me or Arya? _Your sisters_?”

“I had no thoughts for anyone back then. Honestly, I thought I was the only Stark left. When I agreed to do what they wanted you were just a distant memory to me. There were so many rumours. Some said that you were dead, others that you killed Joffrey and ran away to the free cities...And they kept talking and talking and telling me what I should do. And I was angry...I was so angry all the time. I couldn’t taste or feel anything else. It only got better when we met again and...When Shireen came to live here...I was not so angry anymore...”

Sansa knew she had every right to be furious but she caught herself wishing she had been there with him to shield him from those people. Rickon could be good with a sword but she was good at dealing with this sort of scheme, she had been schooled by the best Maesters in the area.

“All I wanted was what was taken from us and make the responsible for it pay ” Rickon continued “I didn’t fight for Stannis Baratheon. I didn’t fight for the North. I fought for our home. It was ours and they took it from us. But Baratheon helped me to take it back and he did more. He found Hal Mollen in Moat Cailing with Father’s bones and sent him home. He cleaned his name from all those false accusations of treason. He even captured Theon, the Traitor and he would have given him to me as well but the bastard died before it came to that. As much as I hate to admit I owe him that much.” he said with growing irritation “He needed the North and to the North I was the King. I gave him my word. I guess that I am my father’s son after all”

Uncle Brynden sighed in relief as if that was all he wanted to hear.

“But I can forget all of it and make it right...” Rickon went to her and took her hands in his “If that is the price to pay for your forgiveness...”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Sansa stared at him with consternation.

“Nothing is certain until this... _betrothal_ is made official”

“It already is. The marriage pact...” said an irritated uncle Brynden.

“...is nothing but a piece of paper!” Rickon raised his tone of voice.

“...the Lords...” Uncle Brynden raised his voice higher.

“...can burn in hell for all I care! Shaggydog and I can pay _His Grace_ a visit tonight...”

“You will do nothing of the sort!” she exclaimed horrified.

He looked away in frustration.

“Do you really want to start another war?!” she repeated Uncle’s words. She took his face in her hands and made him look at her “If you really want my forgiveness you have to promise you will stop acting like a direwolf and conduct yourself appropriately! You are the Warden of the North. Most importantly, you carry our family name and your attitude must befit your position. No more disappearing for whatever reason, no more taunting the King and don’t make things harder for Shireen than they already are. It has to end right here! Promise me now, Rickon Stark!”

He nodded, his chin trembling. He could be such a child sometimes. But she could not think straight if she had to worry about him.

"And please shave this beard off and clean your nails” she examined his hands, annoyed that she had to keep reminding him of such basic things "We have guests"

That made him smile but it was quickly replaced by a concerned frown.  


"I am so sorry, Sansa. You know that I love you, don’t you?" he shyly asked "You are not some piece on a cyvasse board to me...The Gods know I hate that game! Of all the things I’ve done this is the only one I truly regret...”

She looked at him touched by his words. She knew she ought not to be angry at him. He did what he had to do. Would she act any different in his place? “ _I would let him know he was betrothed_ ”

“You really believed he was going to die in his attempts to win the throne?”

She couldn’t quite believe that this was his plan all along.

“Yes” he looked unreservedly serious, very unlike his normal playful self.

“And what were you planning to do when that happened?”

“To remain in Winterfell until my dying day even if I had to eventually pledge my loyalty to this or that Lord. It didn’t make any difference to me what King would eventually scratch his ass on that old throne of rusty swords. Well, except in case this King was a Lannister, of course. Then I would have to call my banners and die fighting”

She didn’t want to think about it.

“Because of Stannis Baratheon you didn’t have to resort to that, boy” Uncle Brynden sighed “You gave him your word as a man and now you have to live by it”

“And you, Uncle? What’s your excuse? You had plenty of opportunities to talk to me today...” Sansa reminded that he was as guilty as Rickon.

“I was looking for the right words; I’m still struggling to get the right ones out” uncle Brynden said “Once I learned that Rickon had not told you, I wanted to find a kind way to give you such news”

“A kind way!? Really, Uncle? Do you have any idea of how ridiculous I feel? The King spent the entire day glaring at me! He must think I am some dimwit prattling stupidity when I should...” Sansa stopped, annoyed at her own failure to articulate her feelings regarding the matter “I don’t know what I should have done. With that man is hard to tell”

“The King is an honourable man. He will be a good husband...”

“Because he was such a good husband to his former wife...” Rickon snorted.

“What do you know about that?”

“I know what Shireen has told me!”

“I know the King and I know Sansa. I believe this match will be good for both sides. You will make a suitable wife for a king”

“I believed that once. But I was just a silly child” Sansa sighed. Sometimes she wished she was still a silly child without a care in the world.

“If you don’t believe me, look at all you have done for Winterfell. My dear niece, who is strong and able, and gracious, equal parts Tully and Stark" he said tenderly "I am aware that you hardly know him but that will come in time. I am also conscious that you are very satisfied with your present life but you know that you cannot go on like this forever....”

“Who says she can’t!?” Rickon interrupted him again.

“Your sister ought to marry eventually!”

“She doesn’t! If she doesn’t want it I am more than happy to let her!”

“Will you deny her that, you selfish boy?! A family and a house of her own?”

“She already has both things!”

“When _you_ marry, _your wife_ will be the Lady of Winterfell!”

“Then I will never marry! Just like you did, dear Uncle”

“I didn’t have the responsibility that you do. That Stannis Baratheon has. Think about what is best for Sansa! Your sister deserves no less than a King. And Stannis Baratheon will treat her with the respect she is due. He will soon learn to appreciate a wife with her qualities...”

“He doesn’t need a wife, only a womb to bear his children! Do you know what finally convinced him to accept the Lords' demands?”

“Rickon!” warned Uncle Brynden.

“Lady Dustin said that Mother gave six healthy children to Father and you or Arya would doubtless do the same for him. If you saw the way his eyes sparkled” Rickon looked disgusted “I wanted to run my sword through his chest right then”

" _He will put a brat after the other in your belly."_ Heat flood into her cheeks and she felt  an awful swirling inside her head. They made her sit. Uncle sat beside her, and Rickon knelt in front of her.

“I cannot refuse him, can I?” she whispered.

“Would you let me give you one piece of advice?” asked Uncle Brynden.

She nodded.

“Remember what you told me when we met?”

“I told you a lot of things”

“You told me you were sick and tired of pretenses. Well, the King despises pretenses and lies more than anything. He will never lie to you. He takes people as they are, if they know their place in the world and are willing to do their part. One of his most trusted advisors is a woman who follows a religion he does not believe in but respects. His Hand is a former smuggler whose services he honoured by raising him up”

“That was before or after he removed the joints of his fingers?" Rickon said "Lord Davos told me but I am not quite sure if remember correctly...”

"This is the last time I warn you, boy!”

“I am no boy, old man!”

“Stop it now! Both of you!” Sansa had enough. She stood up and let go of their hands. If they wanted to continue their argument they could do that without her “I am going to bed and I do not want to be disturbed, not even if the Others attack Winterfell tonight. I need to sleep. Yes...sleep will do me good. It has been a very long day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I didn't mean to turn Lady Dustin into a villain, it is just that she is pretty straightfoward in aDwD and I wanted to use that.  
> 2\. I also didn't mean to make the Blackfish ship Sansa and Stannis harder than we do but he has his reasons.  
> 3\. This story is getting longer than I intended. I blame my amateurish writing. I thank all of you for reading it and for your very kind comments.


	9. Turnips and arrows

Sansa’s eyes fluttered open and she looked around into the familiar half darkness of her chamber, wondering what was amiss. Shireen‘s side of the bed was empty, but it was no surprise since the girl always wake up earlier than everyone else in the castle. The Princess was probably all too eager to spend some time with her father to linger abed longer than she had to. It was then that the clouds of sleep dissipated and reality set in. Sansa let out a lengthy growl and buried her head under the blankets. It had been like that from the moment she had first laid her head on the pillow, ready to lose herself in blissful sleep. Although her entire body craved for some rest, her mind remained stubbornly awake and kept recalling the events of yesterday over and over, helplessly wondering if she would ever vanquish the confusion in her thoughts. It was only in the early hours of the morning, with the fresh breathing of a new day creeping in, that she finally succumbed to exhaustion and fell into a fitful sleep, stirring awake from time to time, only to slip back into disquieting dreams. At some point of this struggle, she had a particularly frightening nightmare wherein Lady Dustin turned into an immense crow and tried to eat her heart while cawing: “ _Sold! Sold! Sold!_ ”

Sansa didn’t feel rested at all and was unsure if she would ever feel rested again. But she forced herself to get up anyway and put on her boots, thinking that maybe it would be sensible to wear that brown gown she rarely wore. It was unadorned and shapeless; almost something she would expect Septa Mordane to wear. It served Sansa’s intention of not looking delicate or feminine. In fact, all that she wanted was to hide from the world. More specifically, she wanted nothing more than to hide from _him_ and his unnerving stare. But since hiding was not an option, she should armour herself with the weapons she had. She found the gown in the bottom of the wooden chest and slipped it on over her head, trying not to let her apprehensions get the better of her. After cleaning her teeth, she splashed some cold water on her face and dried it. She braided her hair into a loose plait and wrapped herself in a cloak lined with fox-skins.

She took a deep breath, opened the door and walked down the corridor. She didn't want to meet anyone and she hated that. She hated being afraid to walk through the beloved dimly lit corridors of Winterfell. She hated to fear the promise of a new day and not knowing what to expect. But thinking like this was not at all a wise course of action and Sansa needed her wits about her, seeing that there was much to be done that day. To start with, she had to sit with Maester Alleras and redo their calculations. It coasted a small fortune to prepare a house for a royal reception. “ _How much a sudden royal wedding celebration is going to cost us?_ ” she thought worriedly. She went to the Maester’s study but he wasn't there. In fact, there wasn't a single person anywhere in sight and the corridors were uncommonly devoid of activity. “ _Where is everyone?”_

Sansa went to Robert's chambers and found him still fast asleep in his bed, snoring heavily. She touched his forehead and his temperature seemed normal. He would oversleep himself on a normal day, regardless of the amount of Milk of the poppy he might have ingested, so she was not worried. For a moment she wished she was as pleasantly unconscious as he was. Sighing deeply, she went through the door and into the corridors again. She could hear the echo of each step she took. It was only when she arrived in the kitchens that she finally found people.

The cooks were awfully busy. It was a demanding task to feed not only the usual people but also the many guests. They could use all the help they could get. Sansa saw little Aemon, Gilly’s one year old boy, contentedly sitting by the fire and playing with some wooden blocks under the watchful gaze of his mother, Osha and Old Nan, who were peeling turnips for the midday meal.

Gilly had come from Oldtown with Maester Alleras but she was born a wildling. It was said, although Sansa would never dare to ask such a thing to Gilly, that all her three boys were fathered by Maester Samwell of the Wall. Sansa wasn’t sure about the older ones, but it was too much of a coincidence that Aemon’s birth had taken place exactly nine months after Maester Samwell’s last visit on business of the Watch. Osha liked to tease her and call her “ _the Maester’s wife_ ” but Sansa knew that the wildling women liked each other. It was easy to like Gilly, who was gentle and hard-working and completely devoted to her boys.

"There she is!" said Gilly, practically bouncing on her seat “The Queen!”

As Sansa had predicted, the news of the betrothal had spread like wildfire. She only half listen to Gilly’s sincere wishes of happiness.

“She is no Queen yet” said Osha “Those southrons complicate everything. She has to say some words before a priest or she is a Queen as much as you are”

“I’ve never seen a Queen before” Gilly still looked at her in amazement.

"Neither have I” Osha was obviously doing her best not to mock Gilly “But I bet they never wake up before noon. I guess I won my wager with the Little Lord. He said you had good reason to sleep the whole day and no one should disturb you”

_“As if I could!_ ” Sansa thought “And where is he? Where’s everyone?” she asked.

“Those who are not at the meeting with the King, are still asleep or watching the archery match”

“What archery match?” Sansa frowned.

“The one between Maester Alleras and someone called Anguy. The King’s men claim there is not a better bowman in the whole of this realm” Osha answered, rolling her eyes.

“They obviously have never seen that dornishman with bow and arrow” Sansa said. Maester Alleras was best known for three things: being a dornishman, being a scholar and for his unparalleled ability as an archer.

“That is why our men are there right now, wagering their few coins on him”

“Let them have some distraction” It is when men have nothing to do that they will do anything. Sansa heaved a tired sigh and sat on the ground, placing little Aemon on her lap. She distracted herself by piling up his wooden blocks. The boy watched it for a while only to throw them down, giving a delighted laugh.

“I was trying to build you a tower” Sansa complained. She could feel the two women looking at her; their task of peeling turnips was momentarily forgotten.

“And how do you feel about this betrothal?” Osha bluntly asked. Sansa could hear the note of concern in her voice but she shrugged it off because she really didn’t know how to answer this question. She could say that she was shocked, but words were made of air and failed to convey the full meaning of how she truly felt.

“You can tell me how you really are. You know you can" insisted Osha.

“It is not so much the betrothal in itself but how I learned about it” Sansa knew she was failing miserably at concealing her sullenness “I wished Rickon had been more reasonable instead of...” It still astonished her that sitting and hoping for the King to die in combat was his plan “...By the way, you didn’t know about any of this, did you?” Osha was in Winterfell with Rickon around the time this marriage pact was forged.

 “Course I didn’t!” she seemed affronted. Yes, Osha would have told her all about it. “Had I known I’d have slapped that boy’s arse so hard he wouldn’t be able to sit until springtime. I only didn’t do it this morning because he had a meeting with the King”

“And meeting that King is punishment enough...” Gilly widened her eyes and bit her lips as if she had suddenly realized she had said something she shouldn’t. In fact, Gilly was one of the few people in Winterfell who were not delighted at the prospect of welcoming the King. She had met him many years ago when he arrived just in time to aid the Night’s Watch against Mance Ryder’s wildling invasion. She was also terrified of the Lady Melisandre. _“She serves a cruel God!”_ she said. Sansa suspected that this was the reason she hadn’t seen neither Gilly nor her sons at the feast.

“Do you want some mint tea?” offered Gilly in attempt of changing subjects “Maybe some bread and cheese?”

“Thank you, Gilly. But I am not hungry” An abrupt betrothal can certainly ruin somebody’s appetite.

"Are you feeling ill?” Gilly asked.

"I feel quite alright. Why do you ask?” Sansa tried to smile.

“Because you look ill” Gilly threw her a sympathetic look.

“I am just a little indisposed because of the cold..." she frowned again, trying to contain her crossness “ _...and a night of no sleep_ ” She didn't even bother to look at the mirror that morning.

“But it is not so cold” Gilly smiled in reply “We’ve seen worse. My boys have been playing outside from the moment they’ve woken up. Old Nan was telling us that we’ll be seeing the sun again anytime soon”.

“And how do you know that?” Sansa looked at the elderly storyteller but she had just fallen asleep, one hand holding a turnip, the other a knife.

“It was something about feeling it in her bones” explained Gilly.

“Her bones are too old to be trusted” said Osha, who had little patience for Old Nan “Now come with me. There are still hundreds of turnips in the storerooms waiting to be peeled”

Gilly looked at Sansa who understood her silent request and said:

“I’ll watch him until you return, don’t worry” Sansa wanted an excuse to remain where she was a little longer and avoid undesirable chance encounters. She also had a soft spot in her heart for Aemon, watching him was no burden. Gilly gave her a thankful smile and followed Osha out of the kitchens.

The boy was happily striking one wooden block against the other now. He made some gurgle sounds and gave her a smile that warmed her heart a little. But Sansa was brought out of that peaceful moment by the peculiar sensation of being watched. She heard a small chuckle and looked up, meeting Old Nan’s ancient eyes.

“He is adorable, isn’t he?” Sansa asked, placing a soft kiss on the little boy’s head.

“Yes, little Robb is the sweetest baby I’ve ever seen, Lady Catelyn...”

Sansa quivered and looked around half expecting to see the two people that have just been mentioned but all she saw were the servants, busy and diligent like ants. She sighed, trying to bear in mind that it was not uncommon for the old woman to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation and wake up in a different time, mistaking the living for the dead.

“No, Old Nan. It’s Sansa” The woman made her believe that it was not worth it to live to be a hundred years when your body was as twisted as a twig and your mind kept deserting you.

“Oh, yes, you’re little Lady Sansa and this is Gilly’s little boy. I remember now”

Sansa saw recognition slowly flash across that wrinkled face and it made her think Lady Dustin was right: time was a ruthless God.

“And I heard the talking" the woman happily said "It seems that your little brother has found you a King. You must be glad”

Shireen would often say that Old Nan was more observant than they gave her credit for. “ _She has a very special gift. She knows what kind of story we need to hear_ ”. The Princess was always the first to defend Old Nan against all of those, namely Osha and Robert, who accused her of being a decrepit old hag.

“My little brother is lucky we are still on speaking terms” Sansa mumbled to herself, but the old woman heard her and gave her a surprised glare.

“Why? You should thank little Lord Rickon. You will be Queen as your Lady Mother once wanted and as befits a Stark. As it should have been when the fat King came here and betrothed you to that golden-haired effeminate son of his. I don’t see reason to whine this time. Your King is not so bad to look at. He is older than you but he looks full of vigour and you can make many little babies together. Don’t you want children? Little children you can name after your father and brothers…”

“I do” Sansa felt herself blushing but truth be told she had always wanted children of her own; that would be solely hers to dote on. It was a lovely idea.

“Well, to have them you have to marry first as many a highborn Lady has done before you. Your King is a very kind father to the little Princess”

“When did you even meet the King?” Sansa asked a little surprised.

“But this very morning! The little Princess brought him here earlier and we all broke our fast together and shared some winter stories”

“Here? In the kitchens?” Sansa could not believe her ears. King Stannis Baratheon, the first of his name, breaking his fast with Winterfell’s servants! Sansa wondered in complete dismay what had possessed Shireen to do such a thing.

“It’s the warmest place to be” the wrinkled woman replied as if it was all perfectly acceptable “And it was still too early. Save for us, only he and the Little Princess were awake at that hour”

_“Like father, like daughter”_ Sansa was becoming aware that the Baratheons shared many traits besides their eyes. _"If only the father was as gentle as the daughter..."_

“But why don’t you look more contented?” Old Nan asked, she had no eyebrows but Sansa could distinguish the questioning frown between her eyes.

Sansa looked around. There was no one paying attention to them.

“I’m afraid His Grace disapproves of me" she said grudgingly.

"Nonsense" Old Nan answered promptly "Any man would appreciate a little wife like you”

“Any man but him” Sansa was beginning to feel a little irritated by the woman’s questions.

“Men are very simple creatures at heart, my sweet child; you will soon find that it doesn’t take much to satisfy them and your King is not different. Don’t be so dismal!”

_“Believe me, I’m trying!”_

“What do you want in a husband that you cannot find in a King?”

The question made her frantic thoughts come to a halt. _“What I don’t want is to leave my home”_. She hadn’t thought about what she did want.

“I want...safety. I want kindness and honesty” It was not too much to ask. When she was younger she would never had settled for anything less than a shinning knight like Loras Tyrell.

“Kindness and honesty?” Old Nan laughed like a condescending Maester whose pupil has just given the wrong expected answer “Is that all you are looking for?”

_“What else is there to look for?”_ Sansa cynically thought to herself “ _Love?”_ She could not avoid considering the entire notion a well crafted lie they told young maidens to appease their fears and give them something to hope for and dream about in their idleness. She had once cherished these sorts of lies as if they were undeniable truths.

“I learned not to expect much on this regard”

“You are too young to be so bitter, child” she said with tender compassion.

“I have not been a child for a long time now. I will be one-and-twenty on my next nameday!”

“One-and-twenty!? Oh my! You should be married by now!” she said horrified “At your age I already had a son. Your Lady Mother had little Robb. You need to marry and have your own children as soon as possible! We never get any younger, dear”

Sansa felt as if the old woman had slapped her across the face but she had a good point. Gilly was around the same age as herself and already had three boys.

“I don’t see why you are so dissatisfied. This match seems to be the solution to all your problems”

Sansa was not aware that she had any problems.

“It is just...I...it is all so sudden! They gave me no warning!" Sansa angrily said. Must all things in her life be so startling and brutal? The life she had fought so hard to rebuild had been unceremoniously turned upside down and she knew that nothing would ever be the same again. She would have to leave everything and everyone that mattered to her behind.

"Child, you are a Stark. You are a descendant of Kings and mighty warriors who have been proudly and honourably fighting the cold and the darkness since the Long Night. Like Brandon the Builder who erected the Wall that protects this Kingdom, who built Winterfell this large in order to house as many people as possible and save them from the spell of winter. Your grandfather and uncle defied a mad King for your aunt Lyanna. Your own father overthrew this said King and crushed a rebellion of the Ironborn! The Gods know that there are no worse people....”

Old Nan didn’t need to lecture her on the history of her house. Sansa knew who she was and where she came from. She took great pride in it even though several people had tried very hard to make her forget that in the past, to make her feel ashamed of it. _“Is she trying to suggest that I am ungrateful?”_

“The Starks are always ready. They never let the rest of us forget: _Winter is coming!_ And when the time comes, they protect us. You are a Stark; therefore you must suffer all the honours and inconveniences the name brings. It would be disrespect to all the other Starks resting in the crypts below to say that you are unwilling to do your part. You did a fine job during all these years of winter however winter is soon to end. But even on springtime you must never forget your duty to your house and our land.”

Sansa stared open-mouthed at the small woman before her. “ _Yes, she is scolding me_ ”

“And of course, you are part Tully” Old Nan continued “I have taken you for your mother’s daughter. Lady Catelyn was sensible; she did know there is no way of avoiding certain things in life and marriage is part of it.”

“I know all of it and I can accept it!” She whispered miffed, looking over her shoulder and making sure that only Old Nan and little Aemon could hear her. “But I don’t know how to act around him or what to expect of him!”

_“Yes, I am afraid!”_ She finally admitted it to herself. The thought of marrying anyone made Sansa fearful and she came to believe that she could live happily without ever marrying. To make matters worse, she didn't understand Stannis Baratheon. His responses to her were always defensive and he refused all her attempts at friendship. She couldn’t prevent herself from thinking what it would be like being married to a man who couldn’t answer her questions with something other than a monosyllabic reply. A man so grave, so withdrawn and dispassionate. What is more: there was something about her that seemed to displease him greatly. She felt self-conscious and nervous around him and she detested that more than anything else.

“Once, your Lady Mother sat where you are sitting, as full of doubts as you are now, holding little Robb in her arms. I was here nursing little Jon. She said she would never forgive Lord Ned. That she could never bring herself to love and respect a man who forced his lawful wife to tolerate the presence of his bastard. But you know the end of this story. You know how devoted to each other your parents were...”

“Yes” Sansa whispered almost inaudibly, feeling warmth in her eyes and a hollow in her chest. She pressed Aemon closer to her.

“Thus, I feel I must give you the same counsel I gave Lady Catelyn. It worked for her...”

Sansa could use some counsel, even if it came from a very old woman. She readily waited to listen to it but all of a sudden the adviser’s eyes began to struggle to keep themselves open. “ _Oh, no! Not now!”_

“What was it?” Sansa asked impatiently.

“What?”

“The counsel you gave my mother” Sansa felt she was going to regret asking this.

“Oh...I don’t remember. It was a long time ago”

Sansa sighed in aggravation and felt utterly foolish for letting this conversation last so long.

“But this much I know: how you feel matters to no one but yourself. It is unreasonable to expect a man to give you the life you desire instead of building it yourself. The heart of men is like the darkest of woods. It is unwise to search for anything in it; you will only lose your way or end up being devoured by the beasts that creep around there. It is the love you give and the affection you show that counts for something in the end. Be kind and loving to him and he will show you the same courtesy....”

Sansa observed the woman with a mixture of pity and annoyance. Was this the only advice she could provide, out of her hundred years of life experience? _“Osha is right. She is too old to make sense”_

“...unless his heart is made of stone” Old Nan concluded.

Sansa suspected this was not far from the truth.

“But even if he is not demonstrative, try to keep in mind that it is still better to endure the chilly nights nestled up against a warm strong body than alone in a cold bed” the old woman laughed like a mischievous girl. “ _A bald, toothless, wrinkled, inquisitive girl”_ Sansa thought, feeling slightly peeved, and embarrassed, at the nosy old woman.

"I believe you might find that having a man by your side has its advantages. Ask Osha or Gilly when they return"

“Ask us what?” said Osha. The two women returned, each one carrying a large basket full of turnips.

“About the turnips” Sansa answered with the first thing that came to mind “Do you need help with them?

“Not from you” mocked Osha, placing the basket on the ground “You are too slow and you waste half of the thing with your clumsy lady hands. Maybe is a good thing you are to be Queen. Turnips are not for you” Osha said with undisguised affection but  Sansa felt outraged at such accusation. She certainly knew how to properly peel a vegetable. Sansa rose, carrying Aemon with her. 

"Why do we need so many turnips? Do we have guests?” Old Nan asked eyeing the baskets curiously.

Sansa gave the boy to his mother and slipped away before they had a chance to tease her any further. Resolved to forget that the strange conversation with Old Nan had happened, she wandered about aimlessly for a while until she found herself at the wooden balcony that overlooked the great yard. “ _So this is where everyone has been hiding”_ she thought surprised.

There was a sizable crowd gathered downstairs, behind two resolute-looking archers, the other one should be this Anguy person. In front of them, at a safe distance, there were two crude looking straw dolls standing side by side supported by wooden poles and completely pierced by arrows.

Sansa recognized a few faces among the onlookers: Lyanna Mormont, Wylla Manderly, Tom of Sevenstreams and Hal Mollen, some brothers of the Night’s Watch and most of the servants. The other half of the yard was occupied by the King’s men. Shireen was watching the match, surrounded by the children that followed her everywhere she was. Sam and Mance, Gilly’s boys, were among them. Ser Gendry, who was standing next to her, had placed a little girl on his shoulders and was visibly cheering for Anguy, judging by the loud cheer he gave when the archer’s precise arrow hit its target.

The sight distracted Sansa enough to bring back pleasant memories from simpler times. Father and Mother used to stand in this spot to watch the boys at archery training. Theon Greyjoy was a talented bowman, Jon and Robb were decent, Bran was a terrible one and Arya bested them all. Rickon was too young at that time to even hold a bow so he would just sit and watch, mocking his siblings anytime somebody missed the target. He was the only one of them she had now and she could hardly imagine life without him around. He certainly exasperated her most of the time, but she also loved him for it. She wrapped her arm around a wooden column, taking a steady breath of the cold morning air. However, the echo of heavy footsteps interrupted her memories. For some reason, she didn't have to turn around to know who it was. Her eyes drifted shut in a vain effort to control her tenseness. She was afraid to look at him and see his scowl.

 “My Lady?” the raspy voice of her husband-to-be penetrated through her thoughts.

 “Your Grace” she turned and curtsied.

 Without invitation he came closer and stopped beside her, observing the competition. Ser Devan remained at a respectful distance. Sansa observed the King with the corner of her eye. He looked even more sullen than yesterday, his jaw already showing the shadow of a beard.

_“_ May I enquire about Your Grace’s arm?” She asked, once again unnerved by the silence.

 “It is healing fine” he said without looking at her “But I bet you wished it was otherwise”

 “Your Grace!?” she said alarmed, struck by the sudden accusation.

 “I come from a meeting with your Lord Brother and Ser Brynden”

 “I trust all went well” she said nervously.

 “They told me that you were unaware... of the current state of things”

 She only nodded, there was no point in denying it.

“Lord Stark assumed full responsibility for it”

Sansa felt her lips curving into a smile. She was proud of Rickon, proud that he faced the consequences of his actions and admitted his mistakes. She was glad that he cared this much for her.

“He formally asked me to leave you alone”

On second thought, the only possible solution was to skin him alive.

“I beg you to forgive my brother, Your Grace" she pleaded "He is a good man but he lacks the necessary bearing of a Lord. I have been trying to remedy that but it seems to be out of my hands. Believe me, he means no disrespect”

He looked at her for the longest of moments, before turning to gaze at the yard and say: “You did a better job at raising your brother than I did at raising mine”

Sansa looked at him nonplussed. Were her ears playing tricks or that statement was meant to be taken as a compliment? The King looked serious.

“My brother is only trying to do what he believes is best for me. But he is bound to his word and so am I”

“I am bound to my word as well but rest assured, my Lady. No one will force you to marry me”

Sansa was at a loss for words.

“Since you are not willing, I believe we have nothing else to say to each other.  Have a good day, Lady Sansa"

"Wait" on an impulse she grabbed him by his sleeve as he turned to go. He looked down at her hand and frowned. Sansa immediately let go of him and took a step back, lowering her gaze, feeling her colour rise. She was rendered speechless but what she had to tell him didn’t require much eloquence.

"I am...willing" she said in a halting, broken voice.

"Why?" his voice, on the other hand, cut the air like a whip.

"I suppose it is the sensible thing to do" she said simply, glad that she was still capable of articulating full sentences. Old Nan was right and she had to be sensible like her mother. That absurd conversation in the kitchens was good to remind her of that.

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the wooden column behind him, turning his back to the competition in order to regard her with a narrowed gaze and a frown. “I think your relatives have kept you in the dark far too long. Allow me to be honest so there is no room for further misunderstandings”

She dared to meet his stare.

“I am the King of a broken country. Entire cities were washed away by the battles. Winter has destroyed crops, herds and men alike. The treasury is empty. I have a large debt to the Iron Bank in Braavos that I must start to worry how to honour. And you, my lady, if you are really willing, will be the Queen of this country. A Queen with no fine gowns or rich jewellery...”

_“How shallow does he think I am?”_

“...at least for a long while” he added.

“I can live with that, Your Grace” She felt a little offended by his words. Why was he telling her that? Did he believe she only wanted to be Queen because of gowns and jewellery? She would gladly never wear a bracelet or a silky gown again if that meant she would never have to live through another war. Was he so displeased that he wanted to discourage her to marry him? Did he want to make her go back on her decision and thus getting rid of her?

“But that is not the end of it. Until a son is born to me...” he stopped “...I think there is no need to tell you what results of a King who dies without an heir”

Indeed, there was no need. She had witnessed it firsthand. If something happened to him, the entire world would plunge into a sea of blood once again. “ _An heir_ ” She felt a blush rise to her cheeks and tried not to think about the part she would have to play in giving him this heir. It had to be a boy or the blame would be placed on her. They said it was always a woman’s fault, never a man’s. “ _Too much pressure_ ”, she thought. But perhaps the Gods would be kind, grant them a son and rid her of such burden.

“I am well aware of everything, Your Grace. I only wish to know, even though it is not my place to ask Your Grace such questions...” There was a thought Sansa had been trying to repress from the moment Lady Dustin revealed the truth but it kept resurfacing from the depths of her mind.

“Just ask, my lady” he had little patience for her good manners, this much she knew.

“Isn’t there another lady Your Grace would prefer to marry?”

“The marriage of a King is a matter of politics, wants are out of question” he said sternly. So there was something else he wanted, or rather someone else. She knew very well who this person was. She was enticing, strong, had his respect and trust. How could anyone compete with that?

“It is not my wish to stand between Your Grace and...”

“There is no one!” he sounded angry and turned around to face the yard “What about you?” he asked after some moments of silence.

She shook her head, unable to speak. She had spent the last few years trying to atone for past mistakes, trying to gain back a little bit of what was stolen from her, she hadn’t paid much attention to this part.

“Worry not on my behalf, Your Grace”

“Nor you on mine, my Lady. I will have you know that marrying again was the last thing I wanted”

“But you need an heir”

“I do”

He probably wouldn't have chosen her of his own accord and neither would she have chosen him. But he was willing to marry her for practical reasons. As Lady Dustin had so bluntly pointed out he only needed her to give him a son. He was making no empty promises; he was not lying to her and she knew she should appreciate his sincerity.

“If only for my daughter’s sake”

Sansa followed his gaze and noticed that he was looking at Shireen.

“If something happens to me, she will have no one else...”

“She has us. She will always have” Sansa said vehemently, which made him look at her.

“It is not the same. I often wished she had siblings to look after her when I can’t. The way your brother takes care of you”

“We take care of each other, Your Grace” she smiled forlornly. It occurred to her that she needed Rickon as much as he needed her. Life was unkind to girls alone in the world and she relished at the thought that her brother would tear to pieces anyone who threatened her.

“I had no wish to expose Shireen to a life at the Red Keep”  

"I am sure the Princess shall be well-liked in her new home" She forced herself to say because it seemed appropriate.

“You spent enough time in that wretched place to not believe in your own words” The subtle anger in his voice reminded her that meaningless words of courtesy were not the best approach when dealing with him.

“I hate that place” the words came out more resentfully than she had intended. Her time at the capital left wounds that refused to heal completely and that all of sudden seemed as fresh and painful as if they have just been inflicted. The Red Keep reminded her of pain and loss and shame, of nasty rumours and cruel stares. They moved about that place like starving dogs, always hungry for power and thirsty for flattery, regarding with indifference the misfortunes of others, despising anything that might upset the fulfilment of their cravings. There was a time when all that she wanted was to be like them. It shamed her now to know that she had been one of them for a while, before they deemed her the disgraced daughter of traitors. She had wandered about the endless corridors of the Red Keep like a frightened doe. She was so utterly lonely! She learned to count on no one but herself. It took a long time to let go of the fear and grow accustomed to its absence. “ _It is sad that a person can grow accustomed to everything, even fearing”._ That was not a place for a gentle soul like Shireen. No, Sansa had no wish to return, but she would return as a Queen and no compassion would be shown to those who so much as looked at Shireen in any way other than the most profound respect.

“I share your opinion” he said with a grave expression.

The King probably had to grow accustomed to a good many things too but Sansa couldn’t bring herself to picture him ever accepting or tolerating the extravagant ambiance of the court in the Red Keep.

After some instants in which the only sound heard was made by the arrows buzzing through the air _,_ Sansa spotted Rickon coming out of the door that led to the crypts. It was one of his favourite places to hide when he was upset. It has been since he was a little boy. He did what she asked yesterday and had a shave. He looked very much his age without a beard. “ _Too young”._ He searched around the yard for a couple of moments until his gaze rested on something. Sansa watched apprehensively as he walked a few strides to stand behind Shireen .

" _Please, go way!”_

Rickon remained quiet for a while, but then he moved closer to whisper something to Shireen that caused the girl to giggle and elbow him in his ribs. He grabbed her forearm and, for a heartbeat, shared her laughter. But then his expression grew serious and he leaned forward to whisper something else. This time Shireen, turned over her shoulder and murmured something back at him. Whatever it was, he didn’t like the answer and abruptly walked away, only to come to a halt six steps later.

_“What are you doing!?”_

Sansa watched horror struck as Rickon knelt down and scooped up a handful of snow, shaping it into a ball.

_“He wouldn’t dare...”_

He would, and he might as well have seized the opportunity to stab his sister with a knife. He threw the snowball and it hit the back of the head of the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, whose father reacted by closing his hand around the wooden handrail in a tight grip. Sansa heard a weird sound coming from His Grace and uneasily glanced at him to find the source of it. He was grinding his teeth and it made her want to capture his jaw in her hands to prevent him from making such an annoying sound.

At the Princess’ stunned gasp, Ser Gendry turned his attention from the match, placing the little girl that was sitting on his shoulders on the ground, and reached for his sword but he didn’t have time to act. A group of outraged children charged at Rickon with the ferocity of a pack of wolves. They gathered as much snow as they could and threw all at Rickon, hitting him square in the chest and face. Shireen laughed and joined them. They threw snowballs at each other, laughing and screeching all the while.

_"They are going to catch a cold!”_ Sansa thought worriedly.

Rickon tried to hide behind a barrel but the children showed him no mercy. They were very protective of Shireen. Ser Gendry seemed unsure whether to interfere or not and looked up at the King for guidance. Sansa followed the Knight’s gaze and saw the King shake his head in answer. His expression hardened at the sight of them laughing and chasing each other. Rickon moved around the barrel, ran past the children and grabbed Shireen from behind before she had time to escape. He wrapped his arm around her waist and she struggled to free herself, panting with laughter, her cheeks flushed.

_"Gods! What are you doing!? Go back to the crypts!”_

Rickon twirled with her in his arms until they collapsed in the snow. The children seized the opportunity to throw themselves upon Rickon, pinning him helplessly to the ground. Shireen sat up, grabbed more snow and rubbed it in Rickon’s face. “ _It serves him right_ ”, Sansa beamed at the scene but the smile died in her lips when she gave another furtive glance at the King. He kept silent, still watching them with a severe expression.

“I don’t like this familiarity your brother has with my daughter” he said dryly, finally speaking.

“It is just child's play, Your Grace” she said, conscious that they were not children anymore and chasing each other through the snow-covered yard didn’t look quite as childlike as it used to be. “She’s like a sister to him" Sansa added nervously. She was not exactly lying because she wasn’t sure what was going on between the two of them. However, she had certainly noticed that there was nothing brotherly in the way they stared at each other at times.

“I never had a sister, but I doubt I would be this close to her unless I was a Lannister” the King complained. In spite of herself, Sansa couldn't suppress a short-lived but spontaneous laugh. He gave her a long, steady look and she quickly recomposed herself. It should be highly unseemly to laugh at His Grace’s acerbic remarks.

But all of a sudden the loud roar of cheers erupted from the yard. The King’s men grabbed Anguy and carried him on their shoulders; apparently he had won the match. Yes, for some reason Maester Alleras would always miss the last shoot. Rickon and Robert speculated that the dornishman did it on purpose, but why would he do that?

Anguy was carried inside. The rest of the crowd started to disperse. Hal Mollen looked mournful as someone who had lost a relative. It made Sansa wonder how much had he lost on this gambling. Sansa tried to spot Rickon in the middle of the throng but there was no sign of him or Shireen. Ser Gendry stood out in the crowd, clad in his white armour and furs, frantically looking around. Before the King decided to search for his daughter as well, Sansa thought it was best to speak:

“When shall the wedding ceremony take place?” she asked to distract him and because she actually wanted to know.

“As soon as possible” he said, she could see a faint look of suprise on his face “My duties at the capital do not permit a longer stay”

“I understand” which didn’t mean she appreciated it. Where would she find a proper gown and a cloak for him to place on her shoulders?

He was silent for a few moments as if considering some important matter of state.

“A few words said in front of a tree will not make you my wife or me your husband” he spoke at last.

“And a few words said in front of the fire will do?” she kept her eyes on the yard, avoiding his gaze.

“A few words said in the Sept of Baelor will suffice. I think it is fair you are given some time”

Time for what? To get used to the idea of marrying him? It would take a long time before that happened.

“We can...wait until you are properly crowned Queen by the High Septon”

_“Oh, Time for that”_. Her cheeks should be as red as the Lady Melisandre’s robes. She was quite surprised that he would grant her time before the marriage was consummated. Wasn’t an heir his primary concern? But the fact that he would wait until they were married under the light of the Seven surprised her the most.

“Is Your Grace a follower of the Seven?”

“It was the faith of my parents and it is the only faith that matters to those damnable Southron Lords”

“What of this Lord of Light?”

“What about it?” he sighed.

“His followers worship you as well. They say you are their Lord’s champion. I thought...” She thought that any King would be elated at the notion of being adored as a God. Joffrey certainly would be.

“Those fools can worship whatever they want” he said irritated “Trees, fire, statues or tired Kings. It makes no difference as long as they remain loyal”

“But if your main supporters believe in the Old Gods, your army believes in this God of fire and your political adversaries support the Seven, I don’t see how you can please everybody unless...”

“...We have a ceremony for each belief?” he cut her off “Yes, I’m afraid. A waste of time and resources...but a necessary one”

She would have to marry him three times? Three ceremonies, three feasts, three beddings...

"I think this matter is finally cleared up” he said, breaking the silence that followed “Now you must excuse me. I have another matter to attend before this morning is over. I trust you will make the necessary arrangements for the upcoming ceremonies” with a tense nod of his head, he took his leave before she had any chance to answer.

“Yes, Your Grace” she murmured to no one, too stunned to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I'm not sure where this long dialogue with Old Nan came from. Maybe it serves to ilustrate how all the northerns are Starks' fangirls at heart.  
> 2\. Sam + Gilly = Adorable! I think they can be together in the end in the same way some priests in the middle ages would have "housekeepers", that were in fact their wives in everything but name. But since they don't allow women and children at the Wall, Gilly would have to live somewhere else. Sam would probably consider Winterfell the safest, and nearest, place for her and the kids.  
> 3\. Sorry for the delay in updating this. College life is dark and full of deadlines. I'm trying to rush things a bit, or this fic will be a hundred chapters before it gets somewhere, but I am obviously not succeeding.


	10. The lucky one

Robert Arryn lay cosily in his bed surrounded by warm blankets, with his injured leg resting on a soft cushion. It had just been wrapped with freshly changed bandages by Maester Alleras. The merry chatter of Sansa’s maids echoed through the walls, just like he had envisioned it would happen the first time he complained to his cousin that she had little regard for his poor condition. As he had predicted, her reaction was to relocate herself and her maids to his chambers while they were working. They sat by the fire as they stitched at their embroidery, a cloak in which the Baratheon stag gradually acquired shape in dark and golden threads. Shireen was also assisting the future Queen with the wedding gown although Robert couldn’t really understand the point of wasting time and effort in anything that was going to be ripped to shreds in the bedding. He could hardly wait to see Sansa’s face when it happened.

It would have been perfect, had not Ser Gendry been invited to sit and have some tea with them. The knight ought to consider himself very fortunate that Shireen was the one he had to watch over. His sworn brother, Ser Devan, had the less enjoyable task of escorting the King. Shireen was very mindful of his well being and would constantly offer him treats or ask him to join them instead of merely stand outside. The problem was that the knight was a rather comely fellow and Robert wished he would leave their company before anyone felt inclined to draw unfavourable comparisons between them. But it was too late. The women were obviously smitten by him, giggling and eying him. For the past hour or so he had entertained them with his anecdotes about the infamous Arya Stark. Apparently, she had escaped King’s Landing disguised as a boy and had roamed about the Riverlands until they were separated. Robert had heard a great deal about her in the past few years and in his mind she was worse than Rickon.

After half an afternoon of such neglectful treatment, Robert decided it was time to begin complaining again even though he was not really feeling any pain. But what was the use of having a broken leg if he could not take advantage of it? Shireen immediately left her stitches and rearranged the pillows and blankets around him. She was dressed in a dark gown and her hair was flowing down her back in gentle waves. The way Rickon liked it, Robert didn’t fail to notice. She sat on the bed with him and asked one of the maids to fetch her cyvasse board on her chambers. It was then that Sansa decided it was time to dismiss everyone and leave to supervise the preparations for supper.

“I will leave you under the care of the Princess, Lord Arryn” Sansa said with slight irony in her voice “I hope it will please you”

It usually pleased him very much. But she wanted to play cyvasse! She placed the board between them on the mattress. Vigilant Ser Gendry positioned his chair next to them and watched as they played.

“I swear, Shireen. I cannot even begin to tell you how much this game bores me” Robert complained yet again after he lost for the third time.

“This is because you make no real effort to learn the rules. It’s really easy when you are familiar with them” Shireen smiled in reply. “Then it is fun" 

However good friends they were, they would not always agree with what the concept of having fun necessarily implied. For instance, she thought it was extremely fun to spend hours on end playing cyvasse, writing or reading. The few times he and Rickon would join forces against her were when she was too absorbed in one of the books of her endless pile of reading to pay attention to them. On one occasion, when they were tired of her answering to them with absent replies without taking her eyes off the page that held her interest, Robert’s impatient cousin took the book from her hands and held it high, out of her reach. “ _What is so interesting about this one?”_ he asked. “ _It is very interesting. It is about the children of the forest. Can I have it back, please?_ ” she said, reaching out for the book. Rickon threw it to him and for a while they had fun observing her attempts to retrieve it because both of them were unfairly taller than her and her efforts were ineffective. _“Are you mad?! Give it back!"_ She finally managed to rescue the dusty old tome from Rickon’s pawns and carefully held it in her arms as though it was a newborn. “ _This is irreplaceable!”_ she said, glaring at them. It was a rare sight, yet very pleasing, to see a good-natured girl like her so riled up. Robert tried not to smirk at the memory.

“But you see, it is impossible to learn all the rules because the excessive number of them is precisely what makes this game so boring” he grumbled, cursing that bugger Maester Alleras for introducing her to the sport “We should be outside” he sighed.

It was the fourth day in a row without snow. It seemed that the long winter was finally coming to an end. From his window Robert had seen people enjoying themselves in the hot springs, or simply stretching their legs outside. He saw some exciting things such as a hammer-throwing contest between some wildlings and a wrestling match between the king’s men. Oh, to think that he was stuck in his bed because Shaggydog was a greedy bastard!

“This is Rickon’s fault” he said with abhorrence “He should just chain that creature in the kennels once and for all!”

"Certainly not!” Shireen frowned at him as if such suggestion was unthinkable “Shaggydog would much resent being chained. He is too adorable” she said, smiling sweetly.

"Adorable?!" both Robert and Ser Gendry said at the same time, looking at her equally baffled.

"Adorable is not how I’d describe a black direwolf the size of an oxcart” the White Cloak smiled at his Princess.

Neither would Robert. In fact, the first time he glimpsed the creature he was dominated by one of the most violent shaking spells he ever had. Since then, he and the monster had shared a respectful, distant relationship. The wolf was too much like his master to treat Robert with any resemblance of courtesy, so he learned to simply keep out of its way.

“Honestly, she is just like Rickon when it comes to that fiend. By the way, have you seen him today?”

“Shaggydog?” she idly rearranged the pieces over the board.

“No” he smirked at her affected nonchalance “My charming cousin”

“I...saw him earlier. He was...chopping wood in the yard” she answered, blushing a little.

Lately, Rickon had been very keen about chopping wood or training the younger boys in swordsmanship or whatever activity that was physically demanding, as if he wanted to exhaust himself. That was why Robert was not surprised when the day of the King’s arrival finally came and his cousin very unceremoniously kicked him out of bed before daybreak, informing him that they were about to go on a hunt. The last thing Robert remembered, before everything faded to darkness, was the sight of black fur tearing into the stag he had been stalking. It was fucking unfair. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had succeeded in catching anything remotely impressive during a hunt. And what a trophy that stag would make! It was bigger than the one Rickon had slain. It was something worth of boasting about to Lyanna Mormont during the feast to welcome the King. The little bitch had already done enough damage to his pride in previous visits. Robert had already planned to surprise her with his dancing: he had practised with Shireen every night for nearly a month; the arrogant minx would not dare to laugh to his face again. And now he would have a magnificent prize to show off. He was lost in his reveries, almost ready to launch his spear, trying to be very quiet to not startle his prey, when Shaggydog ran past him and knocked him to the ground.

It felt to Robert that he had woken up to a different world. Rickon and Shireen were acting weirdly around each other, the vile Shaggydog was confined to his master’s chambers and Sansa was going to marry no other than the King himself. The few recollections Robert had of Stannis Baratheon were of a man who glared at everybody for no reason, always fuming as if somebody had stolen his favourite horse or offended his House. Mother certainly didn’t like him. “ _That irascible man will only foster my son when I am dead!”_ she yelled at his father a few days before he died.

Tall and somber, His Grace was indeed a tremendous let down. What kind of King would choose to wear no crown, only dark furs and armour that did nothing to distinguish him from the rest of his men? “ _Still alive Lord Arryn?”_ he had said with a look of condescending surprise when Robert limped into the council meeting three days ago, as though he had no business being there or being alive. Not that Robert wanted to attend but uncle Brynden forced him to go. “ _You might as well learn something”_ he said. Learn what? How to keep his eyes open while his mind was asleep?

The task of cleaning up the mess that years of war and winter had left in their wake was dull and thankless. Now that the enemies were defeated, the allies couldn’t quite agree on what was their rightful share of the spoils. The North needed to redefine boundaries and loyalties. Some would say the Wildlings should be sent back beyond the Wall, others that they should be forced to take the black and garnish it. There was a certain Tormund Giantsbane who wanted to settle his people in the Gift but Lord Commander Tollett claimed those lands belonged solely to the Night’s Watch. Everybody wanted the Dreadfort and no one wanted to admit having supported the Boltons in their treachery.

The King was in a hurry to return to the capital but not before he had settled all these matters to his entire satisfaction. He listened to his subjects with barely contained irritation and a rather explicit lack of patience. The Red Woman remained close to him, as silent as a shadow, observing everything. They seemed very close. Whenever His Grace looked ready to throttle anyone, she would lean closer and murmur something to him that would make his frown deepen but apparently would help him to keep his bearings. She was undeniably one of the most beautiful women Robert had ever seen, even though her presence was a little disconcerting, like the enormous falcons that inhabited the Giant’s Lance. However magnificent looking they were, Robert would feel uneasy anytime he would see one, as if they could wrap their claws around him and carry him away. She was an unearthly woman indeed. In spite of that, Robert would be lying if he said he didn't try to envision what she would look like without those red robes. But she had an air of superiority about her, a permanent look of satisfaction on her face, as if she had accomplished something thoroughly planned, that Robert didn’t find appealing. She never joined them for meals and the maids designated to attend to her claimed she never touched any of the food brought to her chambers. Her bed was always tidy as if no one had slept on it.

Robert knew all of that because throughout the years he had learned the perks of keeping friendly relations with Winterfell’s serving girls. If in the past he had despised or threw things at them, now he knew how welcoming, and informative, they could be if he was nice enough. He loved to tell them he was a lord in his own right as much as Rickon was. “ _The master of a castle in the skies”_

Osha would tease him by saying that his attitude would eventually result in a little Robert Snow running around with the other children. Robert didn't mind it. In fact, the idea was very pleasing and it made him feel like a man. He would take care of any of his bastards, just like the mighty Eddard Stark had done with his. Sansa would chastise him and say he would eventually become just like fat drunk Robert Baratheon instead, if he didn't change his ways. Robert didn't mind that either. At least the former King was interesting, so unlike his brother. Stannis Baratheon was too grim to spark Robert’s curiosity. His mere presence made brave men uncomfortable. Both Rickon and the Blackfish had seen him in combat before and they seemed to agree that he was a fierce warrior, as skilled and relentless and as he was unmerciful.

Robert couldn’t imagine prudish Sansa becoming wife to such man. The abruptness of the whole affair was astonishing. Rickon had given his sister no forewarning. But if she was somehow distressed she denied anyone the satisfaction of seeing it and made a point of looking nothing but merry. She didn’t abandon her daily obligations but added the task of making arrangements for her own wedding to them. However, the festivities would certainly be modest. In the last three days Robert had witnessed to a succession of mind-numbing conversations between her and Maester Alleras regarding the preparations for the ceremony. They would discuss over and over about banalities such as the arrangement of the tables or the impossibility of dismissing the singers. “ _We can cut down goods from White Harbour_ ” had been their solution for every other problem with the costs. In order to save some more coins, it was decided that the couple would be blessed by the Old Gods and the Lord of Light in the same day, one ceremony after the other. As far as he knew, Shireen was very pleased with the whole matter.

"Do you want to play as well, Ser Gendry?” Shireen asked in a quiet voice after a while “I can teach you, if you'd like"

"I thank you, Princess" the knight answered “But this seems too complicated and too much like warfare" he frowned at the jade coloured board and its intricate brassy pieces of fine dornish handicraft as though they were guilty of some crime.

Robert had seen that weird kind of stare before, in different faces. Even Rickon would sit and gaze into nothingness sometimes, wearing a similarly haunted expression. Robert had grown up in a world at war as much as they did, but he had never witnessed the ugliest side of it and that would often make him feel like he was lacking something. His father had been a renowned leader who had the respect of everyone, including both Rickon’s and Shireen’s fathers, an honourable man who commanded soldiers into battle, as the Blackfish would so often remind him.” _You shame your father”_ he would say when Robert was younger and say again when they were reunited afterwards at the Gates of the Moon.

Robert had never stepped on a battlefield and had escaped the bloodshed that tainted the past few years without a scar. It made him wonder from time to time if this was the reason why Ser Brynden and Rickon were so mean to him but he was never able to decide whether they despised or envied him for his ignorance. More often than not Robert fancied he was the lucky one.

Shireen was looking at her knight with apologetic eyes as though she had said something offensive and that made Robert silently thank Ser Gendry. She probably would not want to induce anyone to play cyvasse again for a long time. That was Robert’s chance.

"I think a little bit of music is called for” he happily suggested “The bear and the maiden fair always cheer me up" The Lord of the Vale loved music and merrymaking.

“My Lord cannot expect the Princess to play that song!” Ser Gendry looked at Robert as if he had grown another head.

“But it’s my favourite!” he whined his frustration. He could demand any song he wanted. Shireen owed that to him. He was the one who had to bear the noise when she was in the early stages of her musical education. “ _Thank Gods she gave up the viol_ ”

“How about _Fury burns_?” said a deep voice behind them. Rickon was leaning at the door frame. How long had he been there? Robert often wondered how he managed to move so stealthy given his size. “ _Just like Shaggydog_ ”. And just like Shaggydog his cousin could only be described as a brute. But to Robert’s disgust, he grew into a handsome one: hair always disarranged, skin tanned by the cold winds, powerfully-built and the fact that he was ignorant of his own appeal seemed to make him even more attractive to every woman around him. Lyanna Mormont was always nice to him and so were the Manderly sisters. Even old Lady Dustin flirted with him at the council meetings. But Rickon was clueless in that area. He simply had paid little heed to women until one fine day he decided to bestow his attentions on Shireen who was as clueless as he was in that aspect. It was an incredibly satisfying novelty to have the upper hand on any subject neither Rickon nor Shireen knew anything about.

“Fury burns?” Robert said with a surprised frown. What an odd name for a song “I believe I’ve never heard that one before”

“It is about our King and his impressive list of deeds” Rickon said cordially as he took a few strides to stand behind Shireen. He eyed the cyvasse board and shook his head in annoyance. He didn’t have any appreciation for the game either.

“It is a good one” said Ser Gendry, whose mood seemed to have brightened at the mention of the tune. Was it that good?

“It’s too long and Lord Arryn must rest" Shireen said and hurriedly started to put the cyvasse pieces back in the box carved with suns that kept them, a gift from Maester Alleras.

“But I don’t feel tired and I’d like to hear the song about your father” Robert smiled. All lords of importance had their deeds turned into songs and he secretly fantasized that one day somebody would write one about him, something heart-rending, along the lines of The Rains of Castamere.

“Yes, Princess. Lord Arryn wants to hear a song” Rickon said sarcastically, as he would do anytime he felt Shireen was favouring Robert. In truth, his cousin could be disappointing better than him at nearly everything, but the Lord of the Vale had something that Lord Stark had not and that was the undivided attention of their Princess.

Robert remembered when he met her. He was hiding under a table, holding his old rag doll, longing to go home, thinking of ways to punish that Sansa Stark who took his Alayne away and brought him to that horrific place, when a strange girl walked in and smiled at him. “ _What’s wrong with your face?_ ” he asked, truly curious, because he had never seen anything quite like those scars. “ _I had greyscale when I was an infant. But don’t worry, it’s not contagious. What about you? What is wrong with your face?”_ she asked with a hint of humour.

Robert soon found that she liked to take care of him and it was fine because he dearly missed being taken care of. Like his mother used to do. Like Alayne did before she became cousin Sansa, too occupied taking care of everything else to pay the due attention to him. Robert required tending and Shireen took the responsibility to herself. He was embarrassed to admit now that he took full advantage of her kindness at first, using her as a shield against Rickon. But then he became too appreciative, too grateful for her company to demand too much from her. And the fact that it bothered Rickon had nothing to do with it but it was a pleasant side effect.The Lord of Winterfell would morosely watch as their friendship grew. He would brood in the corners and stare at Robert with murderous intent and it pained him all the more given that Shireen was oblivious to his discontentment. “ _Be nice to Robert”_ she would always ask him. Robert came to the realization that he had a debt to Shireen that he would never be able to repay. He couldn’t stand to see her upset.

“I have yet to learn how to play the whole song, my Lord” Her voice trembled with some deep but undefined emotion. In her hastiness she left one piece fall on the ground, at Rickon’s feet. He reached out for it and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, studying its form.

“I thought that you’d known it by heart, my Princess” he said softly, returning the little dragon shaped piece to her. She took it back, without sparing him a single glance.

_“My Lord? My Princess?”_ Robert thought surprised. What was going on? Why such formality? As far as he knew, they only addressed each other by their titles in jest, as they would do when playing Monsters and Maidens or Come into My Castle. There was no playfulness between them at the moment. Maybe it was the presence of Ser Gendry that prevented them from their usual teasing. Or maybe Rickon had done something...

Robert had never fully recovered from the day he walked in the library only to find them locked in an ardent embrace. He could only stare. Rickon was much taller than Shireen and had to lean over her but he touched her carefully. They kissed, slow and sweet. She pressed him against the shelves and seemed unmindful of the world around her, including her dear books, some of which had fallen to the floor. One of his broad palms was firmly placed on the small of her back whereas the other roamed up her spine, disappearing under an abundance of dark hair, only to comb its fingers through the strands and take hold of her nape. She looked immersed in the sensations she was feeling, pulling him down to her with one hand fisting on the fabric of his doublet, the other holding on to his shoulder.

Robert was dominated by a curious feeling of jealousy, followed by a subtle wave of arousal that made him feel an utter degenerate. Paradoxically, he also felt worried for both of them. This could not end well. It was then that Rickon saw him and immediately stopped his movements. He held Shireen closer to his broad frame, encaging her slender one, as if she was a secret he wanted to keep to himself. He pointed a finger at Robert’s direction, snarling:” _Out_!” The Lord of the Vale swiftly obeyed. Later that day Robert had to reassure Shireen he would keep his mouth shut about what he had seen and she gave him a thankful hug. Rickon on the other hand was less than gentle and threatened to break his teeth if he said anything. “ _This is none of your business!”_

Shireen was looking even more embarrassed at present than that day.

“I’m sorry my Lords, but I must go” She rose, clutching the box against her chest, and walked to the door followed by Ser Gendry.

“Princess!” Rickon said so abruptly it startled Robert a little.

She stopped and slowly turned around, fixing her eyes on the ground.

"I was wondering if... the Princess would care to join me for a round of cyvasse...later" he gave her a feeble crooked smile and tried to catch her eyes with his.

“I am afraid I can't, my Lord” she said brusquely. There was definitely something wrong. In normal circumstances she would never refuse him. “I’ve promised the Lady Sansa that I would help her”

Shireen disappeared from their sight an instant later, leaving Rickon staring sadly after her, a breath of frustration escaping his nostrils. Robert cleared his throat to make his presence known.

“Cousin” Rickon said in a jeering manner “How are you fairing today? Feeling as bad as you look?”

“I will survive, it seems” Robert answered, casting a mistrustful look at him.

"I told Shireen not to worry. We will never be rid of you" he said with a low chuckle.

“Do you mean the _Princess_ Shireen? What have you done this time?”

“What makes you think I’ve done something?” he said hurriedly as though he wanted to change subjects “Come. We have to go “

“Go where?”

“Sansa ordered me to take you to the hall. Supper is being served”

No one had bothered to help him to the hall the previous nights. He couldn't brave all those stairs with a bandaged leg. He had been well nourished regardless, Sansa’s handmaidens had seen to his every need.

“I thought Bandy was going to bring me supper” he replied innocently. Or was it her sister, Shyra? Robert couldn’t tell the Master of Horse’s twin daughters apart until he slipped his hand inside their bodices. Shyra was the one with slightly bigger tits. The sisters fought for his attention and he brazenly encouraged the clash. It felt good to be wanted.

“The King is attending tonight. Sansa said she couldn’t afford to dismiss any help.”

Stannis Baratheon preferred to have his meals in his chamber, with only his daughter to keep him company, and had avoided the great hall at all coasts the previous nights. Either Shyra or Bandy had told him so.

“And you plan to appear before the King looking like this?” he definitely looked like a man who had been chopping wood not long ago, dressed in loose-fitting trousers and some shabby half-open leather jerkin over a dark shift.

“His Grace couldn’t care less about the way I look. Now will you stop talking and start moving? I’m neither Shireen nor Sansa. I have little patience for your whining, and your slowness...”

“Shut up and help me” Robert snapped. Rickon could come up with a complete list of all Robert’s shortcomings if no one stopped him. His cousin helped him to put on his boots and in no time they were slowly on their way, since Robert could only walk with the help of a pair of wooden crutches. There were plenty of them in the castle. Too many people had lost a limb or two, either to war or the cold.

When they reached the stairs, Rickon placed him on his back without difficulty and safely carried him downwards. Robert couldn’t contain a chuckle when he thought about how he used to be terrified of his cousin’s strength. Back then the fear was intensified in the conviction that Rickon hated him, that he was jealous of every moment his sister spent taking care of him. He had very soon abandoned any effort on his part to hide his aversion for Robert and had no regard for his poor health. He would not stomach his weakness and, what was most interesting, he didn’t believe in it. “ _Your only illness is that you are an ass and a coward”_ he had once howled at him “ _I don’t even feel like punching you!”_

Robert could only say that the aversion was mutual. He couldn’t fathom why Shireen would banter and chat with such a monster that was no better than his direwolf. In fact, back in those days, it seemed that boy and beast were the same entity sharing different bodies. _“It’s the wolf’s blood"_ Old Nan would say “ _It runs stronger in that one”_. Robert wished he could use his lineage to excuse all his faults as well, but unfortunately the blood of the Arryns was of Andal ancestry and much too civilised. Although no one could ever expect to tame the wilderness in Rickon, his sister surely tried. They all watched as Sansa strived to shape him into her idea of what a proper Lord ought to be to no avail. She could make him cut his hair or wear the clothes she wanted but in the end nothing would ever change his ways.

Nothing seemed to frighten him either. He had been where even the Ironborn feared to go and Old Nan would constantly remind them in her stories that the only people crueller than those who lived in the Iron Islands where those who lived in Skagos. Robert had learned all about the Island’s horrible reputation thanks to the old hag. She would tell him and the other children, all sorts of tales about Lord Stark and the time he had spent there, living in an icy cave, feasting on the flesh of those who dared to cross him. Osha refused to corroborate such stories but neither did she deny them. Nevertheless they grew so deeply rooted in Robert’s mind that he would see Rickon in his nightmares, dancing to the sound of battles and rejoicing at the sight of dying foes. What he had done to the Boltons was still whispered like a prayer from ear to ear because it was too gruesome to be told out loud. They said he had roved about the crypts covered in dried blood for days afterwards.

But all the tales about the wicked Rickon Stark only seemed to captivate Shireen. They would sit together and talk for hours about nothing and everything. She would even ask Rickon himself to tell her about his exploits. “ _Is it true that unicorns live in Skagos?_ ” she asked once. “ _They do. They are as beautiful as they are treacherous”_ Rickon said with impish solemnity. Shireen looked marvelled and asked: “ _Have you really seen one?”_ He most likely had killed and eaten one, the savage. He would in all likelihood creep into Robert’s chambers some night, slit his throat open, eat his heart and feed his remains to his evil wolf. Robert would tell Shireen of his fears but she would only laugh and say he had a most lurid imagination.

As those first months passed, winter grew colder, Robert’s health grew worse and Shireen grew closer to his nasty cousin. Robert started to fear for both his own life and hers. He begged Sansa to return to the Eyrie, to take him and Shireen to a safe place. His stepfather, Lord Baelish, would certainly welcome them. But she would only give him a bitter smile, something Alayne would never do, ask him to stop arguing such nonsense and “ _be a good boy_ ”. It infuriated Robert and by then he wanted her dead.

She also forced the three of them to have lessons with Maester Alleras. He and Rickon were united in their lack of interest for it. Shireen on the other hand adored the Dornishman and his lectures. But then again the problem with Shireen was that she found everything interesting: cyvasse, history, sewing, cheese making... She would listen attentively to anyone: his stories about the Winged Knight, Rickon talking about the particularities of some weapon, Osha arguing with the kitchens’ cooks about the best way to pluck a hen or Sansa and her talk of sums and manners. ” _She could be the perfect Maester, if only those old fools of the Citadel would realize a woman has as much as a mind as any man, albeit twice as more creative_ ” Maester Alleras would say “ _It is a rare gift such unpretentious passion for knowledge_ ”. But why would anyone want to be a Maester was beyond Robert’s comprehension.

Shireen had a patient way of teaching that overcame Robert’s oppositions and she would often help him with his readings. She would sit between him and Rickon at the table, like a bridge neither was willing to cross, and trim their quills, correct their misspellings, praise their progress and clarify the subtleties of this or that concept.

One afternoon, she was sharpening the nib of her quill when she cut her finger and blood started dripping over the yellowed pages of an open book on the table. She obviously was more worried about the tome’s integrity than her own and tried to clean it with the uninjured hand. Robert was about to call Maester Alleras when without saying a word, a concerned Rickon seized her hand to examine the damage, and put her finger in his mouth, sucking it gently. Shireen’s reaction was to widen her eyes and gasp in surprise. But that was too much for Robert. He couldn’t only stare in horror as the monster tasted the blood of his next victim, he had to do something. Even though he was overtaken with fear, he made his feet work and stood between them, hiding Shireen behind him. “ _You stay away from her, you...you...”_ he mumbled, trying to find the right insult to throw at him, his entire body was trembling so badly that for a moment he thought another shaking spell was taking over him, but he would not let that evil thing eat the only person in that white hell that actually cared about Robert’s welfare. Rickon looked at him with a slight air of surprise, until his lips curved into a wicked smirk and he said: “ _Don’t worry. I am sick of feasting on human flesh. Pork tastes better”_. The arse was mocking him! He looked at Shireen and saw her pressing her lips together to hide what looked like a smile. Finally, they burst out laughing. Robert marched to his chambers in a fit of anger and only left after Shireen apologized for having shared a laugh with his enemy at his expense.

But after that episode, Rickon changed his treatment of him. " _Perhaps you aren’t as weakly and cowardly as you seem to be"_ he declared one day after some consideration. " _No one tells me I am weak!"_ Robert heatedly said. Alayne would often tell him how brave he was. " _Maybe not to your face"_ Rickon jeered. " _I am not weak!"_ Robert roared. In fact, the shaking fits had stopped; he was eating as rapaciously as Shaggydog and he didn’t feel as tired and sleepy as he used to feel. “ _Prove it!_ ” Rickon dared him and thus they started training with swords. Robert could barely lift his when they started and became the laughing stock of all the other lads who lived in Winterfell, but he found out that the more they practiced the easier it was. Robert also discovered that Rickon was, most of the times, a boy no different than any other, who liked to joke and enjoy himself. On snowy days he would often ask Shireen to read or play the harp to him. When the weather improved a little, he would climb on his horse and venture in the woods with Shaggydog. Not that he minded the winds or the snows. If he wanted to go out, there was no force in the world that could stop him.

One day, after their lessons were done, Rickon formally stated that men should hunt and that he was taking Robert with him and his party of wildlings the next time. Robert was not exactly thrilled at the prospect of facing the white cold wilderness that surrounded Winterfell but his cousin didn’t take no for an answer. He tried to get prepared. Shireen found to him an old tome on the subject. It was the first book he ever read on his own. But there were a great number of things books can’t teach. From Rickon he learned how to tell apart the different kinds of footprints in the snow, the best moment to strike and how to lay traps. He’d ride with Osha the first few times but then Rickon said he looked pathetic and decided to tutor him in horsemanship as well. He taught Shireen too and she quickly surpassed Robert in the practice.

The three of them would do everything together. But all of a sudden, Shireen started to fill out her gowns quite nicely, Robert was forbidden to sneak into the girls’ chambers in the middle of the night if he had nightmares, Sansa started to reprimand Rickon if he forgot to shave and things that once were natural unexpectedly became inappropriate. Rickon didn’t accept such changes well. He would still tickle Shireen when they were playing or steal her books and hairpins in reprisal for when she ignored him. But then they began to gaze at each other in a way that would make Robert flush, anxious not to interrupt whatever it was happening between them. He also tried his best to ignore the whispers and intimate laughs, the affectionate hands that seemed to linger on her waist when Rickon helped her dismount or when Shireen reached out to pull his cloak more tightly over his shoulders.

Robert thus began to spend more time with the other inhabitants of the castle, specially the boys of his age who were part of Rickon’s rather large army of wildlings and orphans. He then learned that drinking was fun and so was paying regular visits to the recently rebuilt brothel in Winter Town. Rickon would never join them, regardless of how much Robert tried to persuade him. He preferred the quietude of his own fireplace.

That was why Robert knew that the vision of the great hall should be really bothering him right now. Although the place was an impressive construction of dark stone and it certainly lived up to the “great” part of its name, it was so crowded it became hot. Some people were not even bothering to wear furs. The light was provided by candles and torches beyond count. “ _Is Sansa planning to roast us alive?”_ She was never a miser with candles since it was possible to simply reuse the wax and make new ones. The air was thick with the smell of venison stew, smoke and the confusing noise of too many voices talking at the same time.

Supper had already been served and people were now finding entertainment where they could. “ _Is that Shyra or Bandy?_ ” Robert saw one of the twins sitting on the lap of Anguy, the archer who had shamed Maester Alleras. “ _I need to shake hands with him sometime_ ”, he thought with satisfaction. The Dornishman was sitting with Osha and some of the other members of Winterfell’s household at a lower table. They were all laughing at something he was saying; probably one of his scandalous stories about the Martels. There was also a group of men engaged in a drinking game. Robert considered joining them but Sansa would reprimand him later for getting drunk in front of the King.

She was dancing with that nice fellow, Lord Massey. They made a rather handsome pair, Robert noticed. He was the kind of man she should marry: young, good-looking and courteous. Her actual betrothed was sitting at the high table suffering the company of the other lords with barely suppressed impatience. To Robert’s surprise he saw the Red Woman among them.

But it was a stern faced uncle Brynden who welcomed them.

“Nephews” the Blackfish greeted them with a formal nod.

"Uncle” the cousins answered.

“I’m glad you have finally joined us”

He didn’t look glad. Robert never really liked Brynden Tully. He remembered when Mother was still alive and their uncle would openly criticise her for all her decisions. “ _He has always loved her better_ ” Mother confessed to Robert, referring to her sister, Rickon and Sansa’s mother. “ _In his eyes she can do no wrong”_. In his eyes it was Sansa who could do no wrong now. He overtly favoured her and praised her for every trivial thing she did while being extremely unsympathetic towards the remainder of his kin.

“I was hoping the King would be gone by the time I brought Robert” Rickon said mockingly.

“You better hold your tongue, boy. You promised your sister you would stop with your frolics”

“I said I’d behave before the King, I said nothing about my conduct behind his back”

"So you have no regard for your sister's predicament. She has enough worries without you adding to them"

“What are you and Sansa so afraid of, uncle? That Lord Stark here slays the King in his sleep, steal his daughter and proclaim himself King in the North again?” Robert meant it as joke but the look on the Blackfish’s face told him that his uncle had seriously considered this possibility.

“He could try. But the King is an experienced warrior and your cousin is but a boy"

"Can you really say this, when Rickon has fought so many battles?" Robert asked in an outraged tone. That old man knew nothing.

“He fought in one battle, he was extremely lucky and he had a direwolf by his side. And you, Robert, have never...”

“...never seen a battle” Robert hissed “Yes. I know”

“Therefore, you are hardly an authority on the matter and should just keep such inanities to yourself”

"Let’s join the merry assembly, shall we?" Rickon said. He wasn’t even paying attention to the conversation anymore. His eyes were searching the hall, probably looking for Shireen. She was standing near the huge fireplace, talking with Steffon Seaworth, his knightly brother and Ser Gendry. Once Rickon spotted her, he strode in her direction, almost dragging Robert behind him. The Blackfish followed them like a good watch-dog.

“Princess" Rickon said brusquely.

"Lord Stark" she blinked in surprise and a melancholic look crossed her features. For a heartbeat he merely looked at her.

"Dance with me" he said, and before she had the chance to refuse him, he took hold of her hand and all but shoved Robert aside. He was caught by Ser Devan. They observed as the pair joined the other dancers. Shireen looked at everywhere but her partner. They liked to dance together. In fact, it seemed that Rickon only learned it so that he had an excuse to touch her because he would never dance with anybody else. Robert could sense both Ser Gendry’s and the Blackfish’s displeasure from where he stood.

“Lord Stark forgets himself!” said a solemn Steffon Seaworth. The boy talked like old Ser Brynden.

“So, Kingsguards” Robert said with exaggerated casualness “Is it just the two of you or are there others?”

“There are seven of us, my Lord. But the King commanded the others to stay at the capital and assist my Lord Father, the Hand” Ser Devan said politely. Shireen had nothing but praise for her childhood friend. Robert hoped that such praises would never reach Rickon’s ears.

“But isn’t the Kingsguard meant to protect the King, hence its name?”

“The Hand rules in the King’s absence" he said proudly "The King said Father was more endangered in King’s Landing than he himself would be on his ride to the North”

A King more concerned about the welfare of his Hand than his own. Robert caught himself wondering if King Robert had been so thoughtful of Father. His attention, however, was distracted when he noticed a group of serving girls giggling and looking at them. The Seaworths were as comely as Ser Gendry and Robert realized once again it was wiser to leave their company.

The Blackfish assisted Robert in reaching the high table and threw him on a chair before claiming the seat next to him for his own. No one bothered to acknowledge his presence save for the servant who placed some stew in front of him. They were being entertained by Greatjon Umber, who seemed to possess an endless supply of bawdy jokes.

She was there too, sitting close to her sisters and Lady Dustin, a nightmare of dark hair and hazel eyes named Lyanna Mormont. It seemed Robert couldn’t avoid being foolish around her, even though he knew how to be gallant and flirtatious in the presence of other girls. By now he had lost count of the number of them he had relieved from their smallclothes but that haughty girl unnerved him.

“Good to see you standing on your feet again, Lord Arryn. I heard you have a real hunting story to tell now” she said with a crooked grin, only to turn her back to him and say something to her sister.

It was not that he had invented stories in the past; he simply embellished them for her entertainment. But before he could come up with something witty to tell her, Rickon all too soon rejoined him. He stood for a while, holding the back of a chair, seemingly lost in thought.

“Where’s Shireen?” Robert asked. He looked to the other side of the hall and saw Sansa glaring at her brother while Lord Massey spun her around in a dance move. Ever watchful of their manners, she probably had commanded Rickon to sit and behave. He had been unusually obedient lately.

“Eat your meal” Rickon replied, sitting next to him. Robert was going to enquire about Shireen’s whereabouts again when he felt a hand squeezing his thigh as a serving girl leaned over him to pour some ale in his cup. He looked up and met Shyra’s eyes. “ _Or is she Bandy?”_ He carefully avoided saying their names in order to not blunder and upset them.

“Stables!” she breathed in a husky whisper. Robert felt a surge of excitement running through him straight to his cock. He smiled and tried to pull her to his lap but she was soon gone. Curse Sansa and her lectures about improper behaviour in front of her future husband. This was exactly what Robert needed to cure him of his boredom. He could already picture her, whoever she was, Shyra or Bandy, lying in the hay without her smallclothes, waiting for him with a smile, like she had done before. The stables were warm but they smelled of livestock and the hay would scratch his skin but he didn’t care. He was going to finish his meal, drink his ale and sneak away before anyone even noticed. They seemed to be engrossed in a conversation about the wedding anyway.

“Surely you agree is a match well made” Lord Manderly said with a drunken chuckle “She will provide you with all the heirs you need and it doesn’t hurt that she is beautiful. I see Your Grace have been admiring her from afar” he added in a lecherous tone.

Admiring? He was casting a half-hostile glance towards her and Lord Massey. The King didn’t bother to grace the fat lord with his attention and concentrated on swallowing his wine instead.

“I bet you have been thanking that Lord of Light of yours for this betrothal from the moment you saw her, am I right?” the Lord of White Harbour said. The northerns really liked to flatter the Starks. It seemed at times they were flattering themselves by doing so.

“I have mostly _you_ to thank for this, Lord Manderly” The King snarled, finally speaking.

“You are welcome, Your Grace” he laughed.

“The future Queen is certainly lovely to behold” The Red Woman answered in a conciliatory tone “She will inspire many a song for sure”

“Are you prophesying again?” the King sneered.

“Perhaps” she smiled wryly at him.

"If you are going to make predictions, you could leastwise tell us something useful. Your fires have been terribly silent these days”

“It is when they show too much that we must worry, my King” she truly had a weird way of smiling.

“But one doesn’t need to be priestess to tell that” Lord Manderly insisted “Just look at her. Don’t you like what you see, Your Grace?” he said with open appreciation. The fat man seemed determined to make the King praise his bride aloud.

Rickon was quite fond of Lord Manderly but at the moment he looked ready to punch him in his rather large belly. He would be viciously protective where the three women in his life were concerned. He once broke the hand of one of Shireen’s guards for daring to touch Osha’s arse when she was serving the man some ale. It was a scandal.

Everyone was looking at the King, waiting for his reply.

“Looks like a gust of wind could carry her away” was his taciturn answer and he said it more to himself than to the people around him.

“Try a very strong gust of wind, Your Grace” Rickon said “My sister is made of tougher stuff than her looks might suggest”

"Tough...” the King retorted “... is hardly the word that comes to mind when I look at your sister, Lord Stark"

Robert really hoped that Rickon wouldn't ask the King to give details of what came into his mind when he looked at his betrothed. Even Stannis Baratheon was not so detached that he couldn't be pleased about what he had in front of him and that in five days time would be his by right. If the King was judging her just by her delicate looks he was bound to have a surprise. She conducted all the household affairs with the strictness he imagined in a Lord Commander. She would delegate work to the servants, who adored her and were always eager to do her bidding, and administer the storerooms with an iron grip. She soon found out that the glass gardens were a precious source of incomes and devoted her time to its restoration and improvement. Winterfell was the only place where anything grew for miles and miles. They would trade their goods with the other Lords or pay workers with it. Even Lyanna Mormont had braved the snows with other fellow she-bears for supplies on a couple of occasions in the past. They were particularly rich in grains, lemons and turnips. “ _You cannot eat gold_ ” Sansa would say. It seemed that she was always doing something. Even when she would sit with them by the fireplace at the end of the day, she would either carry on with the sewing she had to do or read and write missives.

Robert came to recognize that there were surely a number of qualities to be praised in Sansa Stark, but truth be told he had never quite forgiven her for not being Alayne Stone. Sansa was too bossy whereas sweet Alayne did everything to please him. Alayne was devoted to him whereas Sansa was always busy with something else. Alayne would call him “Sweetrobin” and tell him he was brave, Sansa would only tell him to stop complaining. And there was the matter of the hair. Alayne had beautiful dark hair whereas Sansa’s colouring reminded him too much of his own mother. And what was more, once Sansa was reunited to her precious brother, Robert instantly became second-best.

Robert observed as she, rosy cheeked and panting from the dancing, was escorted back to the high table by a perceptibly charmed Lord Massey. She cheerfully greeted Robert and took her seat between her betrothed and Rickon. In no time she was immersed in outgoing chatter with everyone “ _Except the King”_. He didn't look at her, his gloomy mood contrasted with her mirth.

“Where is my daughter?” the King asked without looking at her.

“The Princess had a headache and retired early” Sansa replied

“It must be a very strong headache then, to make her leave without bidding me goodnight” Robert said worriedly.

At that, the King, Sansa and Rickon simultaneously turned their heads to look at him with different levels of annoyance.

“There’s no need to worry, Lord Arryn. I sent Maester Alleras to attend to her” Sansa said.

“Too much noise in here” Rickon said. With the corner of his eye Robert saw him absentmindedly scratching the table with his fingernails as he would do sometimes. Sansa would angrily reprimand him for spoiling the furniture.

"You must be weary of having so many people in your home, my Lord" Lady Dustin said pleasantly.

"Not at all” Sansa answered in Rickon’s stead “It’s not only a great honour but a pleasure. It reminds me of childhood. Winterfell was always bursting with people, especially on harvest feasts"

That remark caused several chuckles and quite as many laughs and nods of agreement. Those feasts must have been something, Robert thought.

“We all remembered it fondly, my Lady” said the Greatjon.

“Your Lady Mother was a most gracious hostess. And so was your brother Bran, a fine lad" said Lord Manderly "During the last harvest feast he rode ahorse through those doors”

“I thought he was a cripple” the King said rather tactlessly.

“Our Master of Horse, trained a filly so my brother could ride it” Rickon said angrily, now scratching the table with a knife.

“I wish I had seen it” Sansa said and gently removed the knife from his grasp, placing her hand over his.

The siblings would look at each other like that at times, as though they could not quite believe the other was there. Osha would say that the pair was lucky, kissed by fire. Both performed their duties with a seriousness that could not be disputed. They were defiant and hell-bent on continuing the legacy of the Starks. They offered shelter to the victims of the winter, freefolk and smallfolk alike. They would listen to them and their troubles, reconcile their disagreements and deliver the King’s justice when necessary. Rickon would always carry out the deed himself, the way Eddard Stark would do, Robert was told. His cousin was a very precise executioner, dispatching all the offenders very quickly, with a single stroke of his longsword, showing no pleasure or regret. Actually Robert had seen him chopping wood with the same expression on his face. Those men were nothing to him after all. It was so different from the way such things were done in the Eyrie, where criminals met their demise through the Moon Door: there was never so much blood only a lingering scream before silence. Robert never knew that death was such a messy affair.

“Not even half the people who attended that day are here now” Rickon said darkly.

“The North remembers!” Lyanna Mormont abruptly shouted and stood, raising her cup. That was soon followed by a collective cry that made the flames in the candles dance: “THE NORTH REMEMBERS!”

How these northerns loved to shout that. Robert supposed one had to be born in the North in order to fully understand the significance of the saying. The King eyed their display and frowned in reply.

The Mormonts left the table after some lads invited them to dance.

“Lady Lyanna is as impetuous as her sister” smiled Lord Massey.

“And twice as insolent” the King said.

“Why do you say that, Your Grace?” asked Sansa, who was very fond of the Mormonts.

“She sent me a disrespectful letter once”

“And how would a child offend the King of this country?” Sansa seemed surprised but a little amused.

“By denying his rightful claim and supporting a pretender”

Did he mean her brother? The almost legendary Young Wolf? It was the wrong thing to say. Robert knew better than to say anything against her family. By the way she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, looking ahead; he could tell she was trying very hard to suppress her anger.

“My brother was no pretender for he didn’t proclaim himself King. The people of the North did. Rightfully, I daresay. We only wanted justice to all the offences our kin and our people had suffered”

Her brother crippled, her father beheaded, her sister vanished. Every single one of the northerns who had ridden south massacred. Not even Lady the direwolf was spared. Robert knew their stories.

“I think is no great sin to choose family over duty, Your Grace. Wouldn’t you do the same? Wouldn’t you break the hands of anyone who so much as dared to touch Princess Shireen?”

“Hands?” he scoffed, looking ahead “It could be a start”

Sansa chuckled at his answer and that made the King look at her with slight surprise. Robert chuckled as well but for a different reason.

“Can you imagine what he would do to you then?” he whispered to Rickon. He had only meant to tease him, but the murderous look that crossed his cousin’s features made him recoil to his chair in fear. Rickon brusquely stood up, pushing the chair backwards, and walked away.

“Where did he go?” asked the Blackfish.

“He didn’t tell me”

The Blackfish gave a tired sigh and he was about to stand and go in search of Rickon when Robert said:

“I will fetch him, uncle”

“You can barely walk, boy”

Robert contradicted him by rising with the help of the crutches. He left the hall very quickly for someone whose ability to move has been rather compromised. But his eagerness had nothing to do with Rickon and everything to do with reaching the stables where one of the twins waited for him. The surprise of finding out who would be there , if Bandy or Shyra, only made him all the more excited.

He went outside and all of a sudden he felt the cold biting his skin. It was very unpleasant after the warmth of the hall. He was crossing the yard when the resounding noise of an axe slamming against wood made him stop and change his direction. He was not surprised when he found Rickon chopping wood near the walls. He wielded the axe and raised it high above his head, slamming it down vigorously, as though he wanted to destroy the log.

Even though Robert was very much interested in continue on his way and have a little bit of fun before going to bed, he felt there was trouble here and decided to interfere.

"Rickon!?" he shout to get his attention.

"What!?” Rickon snapped and stopped, breathing hard. His hair was clinging to his sweaty brow. His eyes sparkled with a strange fusion of rage and embarrassment. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? I saw one of the twins heading to the stables. One day their father will do something about this and I will do nothing to stop him!”

Robert was only mildly concerned about Joseth, the Master of Horse. He knew the man was a loving father, but he was more attentive to the horses than he was to his daughters.

“What is the matter with you?” Robert asked angrily. He was worried and this is what he got in return.

“It’s none of your business” he would say that anytime Robert questioned him about Shireen but he would not accept such answers tonight.

“Is Shireen, isn’t it?” Robert roared “Why did she leave the hall without bidding me good night? Tell me what the matter with her is right now or...”

“...or what!?” he said with a ferocity Robert hadn’t seen in him for a long time.

“I will...tell Osha” he said sheepish.

“I’ve done nothing, nothing that she didn’t want to do as well" he said, turning his back to him "She is the one who has wronged me” He lifted the axe and slammed it into another log with all the strength of his arms. Small shards of wood flew in every direction. Whatever it was afflicting Rickon it seemed to have robbed him from the ability to express himself logically as well. Shireen would never wrong anyone.

“I bet she did” Robert said sarcastically.

"She made me feel as I was nothing to her” Rickon said pointing the axe to the castle’s doors “After everything...I was nothing"

He looked so...hurt?

“She has suitors, did you know that?”

“Suitors?” Robert repeated dumbfounded. Shireen had suitors? In the plural? “Who?”

“Someone in Dorne, someone else from the Free Cities, someone from the Reach! What difference does it make?”

“Who told you that?”

“Uncle Brynden”

Did that man survive the war only to inflict torment on his nephews? The old fart had also coldly informed him that as soon as Robert’s leg was healed he was to return to the Vale and resume his duties as its Lord. “ _Nestor Royce had been perched on the high seat of the Arryns far too long. It is time to come back”_ He didn’t even ask his opinion.

“To think of her marrying a stranger makes me sick to my stomach” Rickon sounded disgusted.

It deeply affected Robert’s stomach as well. Stannis Baratheon couldn’t possibly be so heartless. Not when his daughter worshiped him in private and not in the same manner the followers of the Lord of Light worshiped him as their God’s champion, but with a tenderness that shone through her eyes anytime she spoke of him.

“What do any of them know about her? I know her! She is mine”

“Yours?” Robert blinked a few times as he tried to make sense of what he had said.

Thus he began to tell how, three days ago, he was so desperate to be alone with Shireen he took her to the crypts. It was right after the archery contest between Maester Alleras and Anguy.

“It was just the two of us...finally....and... we almost...” Rickon closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

After that, Robert could only gape at him with pure incredulity once he understood that Rickon had been treating Shireen, their sweet innocent friend, in the same manner Robert had been treating the likes of Bandy and Shyra. And Robert was the maiden when they started their affair, not them! He felt anger boiling his blood.

“What’s wrong with you!?” he tried to hit his cousin with one of his crutches while supporting his weight with the other “Why must you meddle with her!? Why can’t you just fool around with the kitchens’ maids like everyone else!?”

“Are you mistaking me for you?” Rickon had always been too fast for him and effortlessly avoided all his blows.

“The Others take you! I thought you were the better man!”

“I’m not better! I am what I am and I want what I want!”

“And in the crypts!”

“There’s no one there! There haven’t been for a while now...”

Robert stopped and looked at him in astonishment. Every now and then he would say something like that as if it was completely commonplace.

“Why can’t you leave her alone!?” Robert lost his balance but Rickon caught him before he met the ground.

“Don't you think I‘d do that if I could?” He made Robert sit on a bench and took the spot by his side. “If you only knew.... how bloody hard all of this is to me, you’d pity me” Rickon placed his elbows on his knees and looked at his hands, there was something close to despair in his voice “I’ve been struggling with myself to the point of exhaustion and I can’t stand it anymore”

“Horse shit!” Robert said crossly. He wouldn’t have any of his excuses.

“It’s not! It is like....a disease, a constant fever, like I’m going mad. I can’t make sense of myself. I both fear and long to see her” he said looking straight at him “Have you ever wanted something so much you think you’d suffocate if you can’t have it?”

So that was the matter with him. Robert pitied his cousin a little; he knew how difficult it was to think straight with a hard cock.

“But she doesn't care for me” Rickon continued.

“Of course she cares for you, you bastard”

“She cares more about her duty to her father. She won’t even talk to me anymore”

“What did you expect? That she became your paramour? We are talking about Shireen here. Unless you consider becoming one of her suitors...”

“Her fucking father despises me and he already has Sansa”

"So you have given the matter some thought” Robert snorted.

“The King doesn’t need me. But he needs the loyalty of the Reach and Dorne. Uncle Brynden told me so...He saw us”

“Fuck!” Robert was shocked. That piece of information certainly explained a lot about the enmity the Blackfish had been exuding lately.

“He told me to keep away from her. He told me that if there was any honour left in me I should leave her alone. But it is harder than I thought”

“Stop repeating what he said!” Robert said angrily. Only now he realized how damned unfair the situation of his two friends was. “Mother would always say that everything that comes out of our uncle’s mouth is rubbish and we should just pretend he doesn’t exist”

“Your mother must have been a very clever woman” Rickon laughed, a mirthless kind of laugh.

“She was” Robert smiled with pride. He liked when people praised his mother.

“You know what? I am almost glad you broke your leg. It means that at least you can’t go anywhere for a while”

Robert felt pathetically moved by his words. This was the closest Rickon ever got to acknowledge Robert's worth .

“Maybe I should break their legs too” he said gravely.

“Come” Robert said climbing to his feet “It's high time I show you a place”

"What place?"

It was a merry place that would help him to forget the pain and frustration he felt now. For a while at least.

“You'll see" Robert smiled "I guess I will never know which one of the twins is in the stables, but so be it”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. ...and then they went to the brothel.  
> 2\. In this story, I am assuming that Robert is a case of Münchausen syndrome by proxy.  
> 3\. Long chapter, right? I came to terms with the fact that I will never be able to write a short one, or at least one that goes straight to the point.  
> 4\. The wedding will come next. I promise! The next chapters will be more focused on Stannis and Sansa  
> 5\. Thank you SO MUCH for your patience and your words of encouragement!


	11. A long night

As Sansa made her way to the great yard, with Rickon by her side, she reflected on how no one ever truly recovers from the death of expectations. Even after mortally wounded, their obstinate ghosts would always come back to haunt dreamers in those inevitable moments in which everyone is forced to confront the reality of their circumstances. She drew comfort from the notion that this was more akin to the way she had idealized her wedding day as a child, if only for the fact that she was in Winterfell, surrounded by friends and family who had been showering her with heartfelt wishes of happiness from the moment the betrothal had been made official. Her fantasies, however, had envisioned the celebrations as a far more grandeur affair: there would be a three-day tourney and she would be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty. Her gown would be of finest silks and Myrish lace, not hastily done by herself and Shireen with the remnants of cloth they had stored.

Her imagination had been less specific about the man who would be waiting for her and it had only succeeded in vaguely shaping him in her mind. Nevertheless he was always dashing, chivalrous, and she would walk hand in hand with him and be proud. Most importantly: he would adore her and people would look at them with admiration.

It was easy to dream when the past was still clean behind; life was mostly made of hopes, the future distant and formless, yet bright and promising. There was a different path she might have followed, but not anymore. She had been rudely shoved in a different direction, and what could be achieved by dwelling on lost possibilities?

Reality awaited her in the great yard, at the end of a long line illuminated by the warm light of torches on poles. Impassive and very real, as impregnable as a fortress, King Stannis stood by a ditch where a fire was burning, wearing armour and dark furs under the cloak in which she had embroidered the Baratheon stag. He looked imposingly tall with his crown of reddish gold whose points resembled flames. His hand was resting on the hilt of the sword hanging at his hip, Lightbringer, the song about him called it.

Sansa shrank beneath the weight of his gaze, feeling vulnerable again, naked, even though the only parts of her not covered by the white and grey heavy bridal garments were her head and hands. Any lingering illusion she might have harboured about being beloved to someone was dispelled. Breathing was altogether impossible. A sudden fright took possession of her, because, in essence, he was a stranger and she had no choice but to keep walking towards him, step after step.

Rickon sensed her discomposure, and softly squeezed her hand, placed on his arm, making her feel glad and comforted by his presence. Sansa realized it was more prudent, for the rest of the walk, to rest her gaze on the Lady Melisandre, who stood alongside the King, clad in her crimson silks; an oddity, an exotic bird amidst crows. She gave Sansa the warmest of smiles when they finally reached them, and asked in her melodious voice who would give the bride away.

“I will” Rickon answered after brief hesitation. Then he proceeded to enumerate all his titles as well as Sansa’s. When he was done, he looked at her with a sad, rueful look that smothered his boyish features. She offered him a smile, hoping to reassure him a little. Squeezing her hand one last time, he stepped aside, joining Robert and uncle Brynden in the crowd amassed around her. Only then did Sansa take notice of the guests. There were mostly King’s men in attendance, and no sign of Osha or other familiar faces. They were probably waiting in the Godswood where the second ceremony would take place shortly. Shireen stood a couple of steps behind her father, next to Maester Alleras, the White Cloaks and Lord Massey. The Princess mouthed “ _You look beautiful”_ and Sansa couldn’t hold back a grin.

“And who shall claim the bride?” asked the red lady, turning her face to smirk at the King.

“I, Stannis of House Baratheon, the first of my name” he said, stepping forward “King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm...” his voice carried such annoyed resignation it made Sansa realize that this wedding was as much of an ordeal to him as it was to her. But a distant voice in her head told her that their realities were altogether different. They never asked, at least not in any faith that Sansa knew, whether the bride wished to be given and claimed.

The priestess took their hands and joined them, placing Sansa’s right one on top of his left. Her palm was small and cold against the back of his large warm hand. As he grasped her fingers, she tried not to shudder once she realized that was the first time she touched any part of her soon to be husband. Then, the priestess walked around the bonfire, stopping to face them and the guests. She raised her hands and began to sing a chant in a foreign language. The flames seemed to come alive and dance to the sound of her voice. It was a striking vision and yet uncanny, tongues of orange and red fire twisting and swelling like the flowing waters of a river.Sansa didn’t notice that she was leaning closer to the King until she felt his gaze on her.

“Are you well?” he asked, not troubled in the least. But his hold on her fingers, while still gentle, grew firmer. Sansa took a deep breath and nodded, mesmerized by the sight before her even though Shireen had warned her that this was how the Lord of Light blessed marriages. At any rate, it was comfortable to be wed near a roaring fire while another winter night was falling. She was thankful that there was no snow and not only because it would spoil her hair, styled in the northern fashion. She was told that it was a good omen, for snow on a wedding day predestined a cold marriage, although Sansa was just vaguely aware of what the saying meant and highly doubted if she would find any warmth or happiness again.

The Lady Melisandre began a litany in praise of the Lord of Light’s power and benevolence, which was answered in a fervent chorus by the devoted congregation. She pleaded her Lord to fill their hearts with fire, to cast his light upon their paths, to give them the strength to brave the darkness together. As she said her prayers, many voices joined hers, their zeal one and the same.

“King Stannis Baratheon, warrior of light” she said at last “Do you vow to share the fire that burns inside you with this woman and protect her against the terrors that prowl in the dark?”

“I vow by the Lord of Light to warm and protect and honour her until the end of my days.”

Sansa studied him as he spoke, musing whether he meant any word or were they as empty as his will to utter them.

“Lady Sansa Stark”

Sansa almost jumped when the Red Woman addressed her.

“Do you vow to share the fire that burns inside you with your King, and give him warmth when cold and darkness surround him?”

“I vow by the Lord of Light” she said “To share my fire and always be faithful to my lord husband and King” thankfully, her voice carried all the conviction she did not feel.

“By the grace of the Lord of Light you shall become one” her eyes reflected the glimmer of the firelight, glowing like the ruby encrusted in the choker around her neck.

Sansa took hold of her skirts and the king closed his hand around hers in a firmer grip. Together they jumped over the flames. Echoes of childhood playfulness reverberated inside her, making Sansa bite her lower lip to prevent a nervous smile from taking form. But any will to smile died in her as they stood in front of each other and she ventured a look at his face. She held her breath when he came closer and quietly removed first the furs and then the maiden cloak from her shoulders, tossing them to Steffon Seaworth. His eyes sought hers while he made a short work of unfastening his own dark cloak. She was determined to not look away but her traitorous eyes began to follow his movements and, for an instant, as he whipped the Baratheon cloak about her with grim resolution, she was trapped, flanked by his arms. He gently pulled her braids from under the cloak, and they fell on either side of her neck. After that he wrapped her around warm furs again. Then she felt the weight of his hands on her shoulders. His gaze dropped to her mouth. He leaned down and she closed her eyelids, raising her face to receive a kiss, heart pounding wildly. His warm breath caressed her cold skin. Her senses converged on the fleeting touch of his lips against hers. When they parted, she breathed out and gave him a shy smile he didn’t return. Something dark crossed his eyes as he observed her with such absorption it made her go weak in the knees.

“Two souls but one flesh” the woman pronounced with reverence the words that would irreversibly seal the union.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Shireen drawing closer, carrying a white cushion in which a smaller and more delicate version of the King’s own crown laid. The King took each object separately and threw the cushion at her feet.

“Kneel” he whispered the command and held her hand to help her to the position.

Sansa complied, bending to her knees, bracing herself. She swallowed against the lump constricting her throat and waited but nothing happened. She glanced up and frowned in seeing that the King was rubbing the smaller crown with both hands, trying to warm the cold piece of gold before placing it on her brow.

It didn’t feel as heavy as she feared when he finally lowered it on her head. Although it fit perfectly, she wished to get rid of it soon afterwards. It belonged to another woman. Shireen had assured her that she didn’t mind Sansa wearing something that was made for her mother. “ _Mother said it belonged to the Baratheon queens”_ the princess insisted with one of her disarming smiles. The girl had kept all the jewellery that once belonged to Selyse Florent but Sansa had absolutely refused to touch in any of the necklaces, bracelets and rings.

“Rise, Sansa, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms” said the King.

A few words, some golden headgear and she was made Queen. He stretched out his hand to her and she gladly made use of it to steady herself while she rose, cautious not to step on her skirts. Her heart was like a thousand war drums beating between her ribs.

“All hail the Queen!” Uncle Brynden’s voice thundered through the yard. The people around her began to bow in deference.

Sansa yearned for some time alone but they were not yet done. On they went, followed by the wave of guests behind them. The symbol of her new status resting on her head forced her to walk very stiffly by the King’s side.

She supressed a gasp when the Godswood came into sight. Amid lords and ladies, small folk and free folk, there were hundreds of people assembled there . All of them had come to bear witness to the king’s marriage, the only one amongst several contenders who had troubled himself to aid the north. There were faces she had never seen before, but the nearer to the heart tree the more people became recognizable. Lady Dustin, Manderleys, Glovers, Karstarks, Umbers bowed to her. She almost reached out for Osha when she walked past her. She saw a grinning Old Nan, standing with the help of Gilly and Joseth, the Master of Horse, looking so pleased in being there, it was all that Sansa could do not to shed tears. The ancient woman was too frail to leave her cosy spot near the fireplace in the kitchens _“She shouldn’t be here! It’s too cold for her!”_

The ghostly heart tree stood ahead. Steffon Seaworth appeared out of nowhere and placed the cushion at her feet again. The King helped her once more and then silently knelt down in the snow. As she stared at the pale olden face she had sought so many times before, Sansa had the uncomfortable impression of being watched back. The Old Gods didn’t require priests to do their will. King and Queen simply swore more vows of faithfulness and glanced at each other when they were done.

He rose and helped her to her feet. His hard eyes bore back into hers and his head slowly bent. His lips brushed hers again, but this time it lingered enough for her to sense his skin against hers, oddly smooth, pleasantly warm. He had a deep, earthy scent that filled her nostrils, making her feel a little lightheaded. He stood in front of her, eyeing her strangely and Sansa wished she could read his thoughts but with that she was twice married to Stannis Baratheon.

She couldn’t remember the walk back to the castle for the life of her but all those assembled there cheered when they stepped into the great hall. The newlyweds slowly moved between the corridor formed by the disposition of the long tables, nodding in response to the compliments of those whom they passed by. Their families and the members of the northern council followed them to the high table.  They reach their seats and watched as the guests tried to find a place to sit and settle. There were not enough seats for everyone and some of the guests would simply have to stand.

What a sight, she thought, wildlings and northerns breaking bread together. Old Nan had populated her childhood nightmares with accounts about the barbaric world beyond the wall and its ferocious inhabitants. But now Sansa would snort anytime she looked at Osha, who would do anything for Rickon, or Gilly, such a doting mother, and tried to picture them drinking blood from children’s skulls. They were people like any other, who felt cold and feared and loved and sang and cried, same as herself. They even reverenced the same gods. Actually, she had realized at some point that the northerns shared more similarities with the free folk than with southern fellow countrymen.

Wildlings had been naturally replaced by the Iron born as the monsters in Old Nan’s stories. Now she imprinted fear in a new generation of children with tales of iron born perfidy and bloodthirstiness that she had learned in her time at the Dreadfort. The stories always started with longships appearing in the horizon only to wreak destruction in a wave of pillaging. Asha Greyjoy aided the King against the Targaryen invasion and for that was proclaimed Lady of the Iron Islands. Rickon understood that she was an important ally but it would take another generation or two to forget that her people took Winterfell by deceitfulness and none of them were welcomed there.

Before anyone was allowed to indulge in the revels, the traditional speeches were delivered. The King kept his short, and Rickon followed his example. Sansa suspected that joyful round of applause that succeeded was due to the briefness of it. Some toasts were made and thus the wedding feast started, boisterous and jolly.

As the night progressed, it seemed to Sansa that she had listened to the courteous words of every lord and lady in the whole of the North, moving in a trancelike state among them. Their faces were blurs and if anyone had asked her later what they had talked about she would be unable to say. But Sansa didn’t forget to smile. She was good at it, forcing smiles and affecting merriment, skills she had perfected under the guidance of Littlefinger to such levels of spontaneity it frightened her a little. She sat between her husband and brother, neither men in the mood for talking, and tried to go through the motions of making conversation with others and drinking. She managed to swallow some bread, not trusting her stomach to handle any food. She didn´t want to be known as Queen Sansa, the sick, the one who vomited during her wedding feast. She absent-mindedly toyed with the wide sleeve of her gown. Although improvised, it was well made and lovely in its simplicity. Gray and white contrasting against the dark cloak her husband had placed on her shoulders.

After the first course was served, Tom of Sevenstreams began to play his harp. He started with traditional songs. “ _My Lady wife_ ” was followed by “ _Two Hearts That Beat as one_ ”. But he soon began to perform his extensive repertoire of war ballads. “ _Fury burns_ ” was played twice and it was the first time Sansa witnessed her husband drinking more than one cup of wine.

In the middle of it all, Lord Massey asked Wyla Manderly for a dance. Shireen partnered with a very stiff Steffon Seaworth and Sansa was surprised that Rickon had not asked the Princess for a dance. Glancing at him, she recognized that spellbound look on her brother’s face as he stared at their friend. He abruptly rose, startling her.

“Where are you going?” she asked. He could not leave her now.

“I just need some fresh air. I’ll be back before anyone notices it” he patted her shoulder and left, but not before glancing at Shireen one last time.

Sansa was taken aback by a less than dignified feeling of envy, wishing someone would look at her like that as well. _“My husband won’t look at me. He won’t love me”_. He was simply indifferent to her. Had Sansa been squinted-eyed and lame, he would still have to marry her, even if it repulsed him. He didn’t marry her for the conversation for sure. He had not talked to her properly since they had said their vows. Was it so difficult for him to talk to her? After all this time surrounded by rather loud and demonstrative people, it was apparent that she would have to adjust to a life in silence all over again.

“Does my lord husband enjoy dancing?” she asked although she already knew the answer.

The King gave her a look that she could not read, before answering: “I have neither talent nor inclination for it”

She was about to argue that it was expected of them to dance at least once together but the awful sound of his grinding teeth discouraged her to further press the matter. So she would never dance with her husband, another silly dream shattered to add to her collection.

_“He should dance with me, even if he doesn’t like it. It would be only courteous”._ But her husband was not courteous, he was blunt and cold. She sighed, feeling drained, the weariest of women. She wondered not for the first time, why had she consented to all of this when the King himself had given her a chance to walk away. The immediate answer was that she wanted to avoid scandal. There was no way of stopping what had already been established years ago, in the presence of all the northern leaders, without bringing shame to her House. In addition, to publicly reject the King was unthinkable. Nevertheless, it was still her choice and whatever the outcome might be, she had only herself to blame. “ _Or maybe Lord Manderly...”_   The fat man sat near Robert and the Greatjon, drinking and laughing loudly, ignorant of the turmoil within her. Uncle and the King engaged in conversation and she was left alone.

The need for some fresh air all of a sudden became imperative. She made her excuses and stood, aiming for the nearest exit. However, it was too much to hope the bride’s absence would go unnoticed. She didn’t make very far without having her path blocked by some solicitous guest. She talked with the Glovers for a while, then she spent some time chattering with Alys Karstak and her husband, the former Magnar of Thenn, and now Lord of Karhold. The couple had agreed to settle many freefolk families in their lands.

The man walked away soon after, grumbling his respects to his Queen, to join his men. Once he was gone, his wife began to describe her own wedding day. It took place at the wall, Jon Snow played her brother. Sansa didn’t want to talk about Jon or she might as well lose the precarious hold she had on her emotions. So she asked her companion about her children instead. The Lady of Karhold had a strong brood of four, the eldest had come with her and was rather occupied chasing after Gilly’s boys. They watched them playing for a while.

“I don’t know what powers the God of Fire might have” the Lady of Karhold smiled gently “But his blessings are effective when it comes to marriages...” she stopped talking and apologized, running towards her son when he began to roll in the floor with the other boys. Sansa observed as mother grabbed child, taking him by the arm.

“But we were just playing...” he said in the helpless tone children often use when inconvenient adults spoil their fun.

Sansa was about to continue her quest for a way out of the hall when she came face to face with the only person she had truly hoped to avoid.

"Lady Dustin" Sansa said with a smile, though she would rather tell the woman to throw herself in the deepest pit of the Seven Hells.

“Your Grace” Lady Dustin at least had the grace to curtsey even though she held her head high “You are now a married woman. I believe tradition holds it that you should be dancing with your husband”

“I am afraid my King is not fond of dancing”

“Let us hope you find other manners of persuading _your King_. Especially when she is so beautiful” her face twisted into an ugly imitation of a smirk “Your husband’s lover”

Sansa caught sight of the Lady Melisandre encircled by a small crowd of admirers who worshiped her as much as the Lord of Light. She radiated a quiet sort of confidence and beauty which Sansa could never hope to outshine. Sansa had observed king and priestess interacting before and was surprised to notice that he didn’t treat her any different from his other councilors. And yet she was aware that the woman was more to the King than that.

“But that religion of hers is pure folly. The night is dark and full of terrors; she says” Lady Dusting mocked “Nonsense. What is there in the night to fear? There is freedom in the hours of darkness, moments of welcome solitude, of clemency after the harshness of most days. I have always welcomed night. It belongs to me to do what I please, to nurse my grudges and mourn my losses. Some truths only reveal themselves when is dark. Sweet truths, bitter truths... There are no walls or armours. In the dark men expose their true selves. You will know that very shortly” her face grew taut “It is a little like being torn asunder”

Sansa politely listened to the woman but her innards twisted in a knot as it would happen anytime she thought about the physical part of marriage. She had succeeded in banishing any thoughts of it from the forefront of her mind while occupied organizing the festivities. Her knowledge of marital duties was obtained from Myranda Royce, who, thinking her a bastard, had spared her of no details when describing the act. Sansa was now convinced the conversation left her sensibilities permanently impaired. It seemed not only painful but also terribly embarrassing and a tad disgusting. She had yet to figure out how to bring herself to do something so intimate with a man she barely knew. “ _He said he would give me time. We won’t do anything tonight”_ she wanted to scream it from the top of her voice at the woman before her. He seemed so uninterested in her that she felt inclined to believe he would not find difficult to keep his word.

“And I had an advantage that you don’t. I was in _love_ ” she said with sourness that contradicted the concept altogether.

Surprisingly, irritation and nervousness converted to pity inside Sansa. She began to wonder what form of disenchantment had befallen on Lady Dustin’s life to make her so nasty and spiteful, to the point of addressing her new queen in such uncouth manner. “ _She is just a bitter woman who is starting to age”._

“Your husband was very fortunate” Sansa smiled, thinking it was always wiser to slay opponents with sympathy. She watched the woman’s expression changing; the smile that curved her mouth gradually becoming a harsh line.

“I said nothing about husbands” Lady Dustin answered, flashing anger, and before Sansa could reply, the woman strode away.

Sansa was left with a curious sense of victory growing in her chest but that was completely forgotten when she saw a red form walking in her direction. It was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen her. She stared at the woman for a while, not sure of what to say.

"Would my Queen mind if I joined her?" Lady Melisandre’s serene countenance betrayed nothing.

“Not at all” Sansa answered, asking herself what they could possibly talk about. To her surprise the woman hooked her arm with hers, like she and Jeyne Poole used to do when they were children. They walked for a while, until Sansa noticed they were moving towards the high table.

“It was a beautiful service” Sansa ventured to  say, trying to hide her frustration.

“A union forged in fire is a most blessed one. The former Queen begged the King, countless times, to allow them to be wed once more, a true union consecrated to the Lord of Light” she sighed with pity “He never complied with her wishes.”

Even Sansa knew what was said about the King’s marriage to her predecessor. He had spurned Queen Selyse from the start. “ _Will he shun me too?_ ” The idea of her husband seeking another woman’s bed, most likely the one holding her arm, was intolerable. He was certainly no Robert Baratheon but that only made the whole situation worse. A man like him would not seek pleasure for the sake of it. He would only take a paramour if the woman in question meant something to him in a way his wife did not.

The Lady Melisandre took her hand in hers, as she had done before, scrutinizing her face and caressing her braid with the tip of her fingers.

“The flames burn doubts and past sins clean” her eyes sparkled with sympathy “Leave their ashes behind you were they ought to stay. It matters not what we might have been. We are what we make from who we are”

Sansa felt that none of her thoughts were hidden to the priestess, so she could be as blunt as her husband.

“You told me about a blessed future...” But before she had the chance of making further inquiries, the sound of murmurs and laughter was heard like the distant thud of rain. Then, it became a storm of voices that thundered its way through the hall until it reached her. One by all the voices combined to speak one word: bedding.

Oh no, she was not ready for that.

The bedding had appalled her more than the idea of being bedded by her husband. Being exposed to the eyes of a bunch of men, the target of their hands and lewd jokes was too degrading to conceive. Tyrion Lannister spared her the shame. But she had been in such helpless position before, outside the acceptable context of a wedding rite. She had learned that no one died of humiliation: it only made living and facing people exceedingly difficult.

The entire hall was looking at her and, instinctively, she searched for her husband. He stood from his seat, looking enraged, but he was too far away. She held Lady Melisandre’s arm like a terrified child.

It all happened very fast. Sansa felt her feet being swept off the ground. She closed her eyelids, waiting for the worst to happen. Noticing how gentle the arms enveloping her were and how her clothes were still intact, she opened her eyes and saw the staunch face of her brother. They were half way through the corridor when she heard screams and a familiar growl that could only belong to Shaggydog. Sansa looked behind, over Rickon’s shoulder, recognizing the direwolf’s form guarding the passageway from where they came.

“He won’t let anyone pass” Rickon said with a stubborn look “There is not much I can do for you now but none of them will touch you, I promise you that”.

Sansa could not help it. She laughed out loud and hard, until a layer of tears blurred her sight. The sound echoed down the empty corridor. Her shoulders shook so much it reminded her of Robert’s shaking spells as a boy. At that very instant, Sansa felt such love and gratitude for Rickon it made warmth spread through her, purging away the heavy mood that had plagued her the entire day.

“What is so funny?” he looked at her as though she was mad “I thought you’d be angry and scared”

“I am just glad you are here. That’s all” was the answer she gave to his puzzled look.

Anger had long been replaced by anxiety, because her husband was the dreadful unknown all over again, and she was out of her league when it came to him.

“What troubles you? Tell me.”

“What if he hates me?”

“Is really that what you are worried about? Stannis Baratheon is many things but idiot is not one of them. And if he values his skin, he will treat you well”

“What if they hate me?"

“Who are they exactly?”

“The courtiers? The entire Kingdom?”

What if she was a failure as a Queen? Cersei Lannister appeared unbidden in Sansa’s mind. Her subjects all smiled and were eager to win the Lannister Queen’s favour but no one truly esteemed her. Sansa couldn’t bear to live like that.

“Do you mean all those cunts whose opinions aren’t worth a fart? You are their bloody queen now. They are the ones who should be pissing themselves worrying if you like them” he said as if it was obvious “But if you want...if you need...” a concerned expression crossed his face “...you can always come back. Just send a word and I will save you”

She knew he would. “ _Gods, I am not going to cry”._

“Don’t be silly” she said in a teasing manner “You can’t leave. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, remember?”

They all left once, and everything fell apart.

“This is your responsibility now, mine...I guess I will know it when I stumble upon it”

“I wish you luck, sister”

“And I wish you the same, little brother. I wish you all the luck in the world”

“You know what the free folk say. Apparently, we were both born lucky”

“I suppose” she sighed. If the saying was remotely true, Mother and Robb would be there as well.

“We are still alive, aren’t we?”

She rested her head on his shoulder and held him tight as they proceeded towards the chambers she prepared for herself, which were connected to the king’s own rooms by a narrow passage. Somehow, she was not surprised to find Osha waiting there when they arrived. Rickon gently placed her on the ground.

“Go back to your guests, little lord. I’ll take care of her” Osha said.

He nodded quietly and hugged Sansa one last time before leaving.

“This crown suits you well" Osha said with a smirk.

“Don’t start” Sansa gladly removed the object from her head and took a good look at it. “What should I do now, Osha?”

"You could begin with your hair"

First, they got rid of the cloak and the furs and Sansa stretched her arms over her head, happy for having her freedom of movement restored. She sat on a chair and closed her eyes while Osha undid the braids. She felt the weight of her own hair cascading down her back, reaching her elbows. _“Will he pull my hair like Myranda said men do?_ ”

“Osha?” she sighed, her brows drawing together in an unhappy frown.

"What?"

“Does _it_ hurt?” her face flushed hotly.

“A bit at first, yes. But I heard some women feel nothing”

“And it can be p-pleasant...”

It had to be, otherwise people would not make such a fuss about it, would not pay for it, fight for it, force other’s to do it against their will.

“It can” Osha said “You’ll be fine. You’ll see" her friend embraced her from behind and Sansa took hold of her arms, giving them a gentle squeeze “King or not, he is but a man under that armour"

She had a hoarse but soft tone to her voice that was always pleasant to hear. Sansa had trusted her unreservedly from the moment they met. Anyone who had risked so much to keep her brother alive was worth of her trust. It often seemed that some divine providence had stopped Robb’s hand from executing Osha so that the woman could aid his siblings afterwards. She would always speak so fondly of Bran. _“He is out there somewhere, I know it”,_ she would say.

"I feel at ease because you will be here to watch out for Rickon. But I wish you could come with me"

"And I wish you could stay"

No more words were spoken, but neither woman minded. There were two kinds of silence, Sansa reflected, a dreadful, empty one that crushed people, making them feel small and flimsy, and a sweet one that spoke of comfort and companionship. The former had returned to her life in the shape of a husband, the latter was something like she shared with Osha.

Finally, Sansa was dressed only in a thick nightgown and stockings. She pulled on a fur-lined robe that reached her feet. Osha was about to leave.

“Osha?” Sansa said earnestly.

The wildling woman, her friend, stopped at the door and looked at her.

"Thank you" Sansa smiled, her chin trembled a little “Thank you for...well...everything”

“Your Grace" Osha dropped a clumsy curtsy and returned her smile with an affectionate one of her own. All too soon, she was gone. Sansa had to bite her tongue to not give into the urge of asking her to stay.

_“Your Grace”,_ two words that sent powerful shivers down her body. “ _I am Queen”_ she told herself, a position above all other women in the realm. But it was so high it seemed a rather lonesome one. “ _I will have children and they will love me and I will love them”_. She was sufficiently old by the time Rickon was born, to remember the jubilant look on Mother’s face as she held her newborn son. Even as a child, Sansa was taken by the wish of experiencing that too, such raw sort of contentment. It would be enough...or so she hoped.

Alone, with nothing left to do and no will of doing anything, she sat by the fire. The chamber was warm enough and yet she felt chilly. Sleep did not grace her the night before. Overall, she hadn’t had a good night of sleep ever since she met the man whom now, according to two different faiths, she had the right to call husband. “ _He isn't coming. I will spend my wedding night by myself”_. He would keep his word and she should be relieved and thankful, there was no real cause for the weight oppressing her chest. She began to muse about how, until a couple of moons ago, she fancied herself safe and confident. Oh, she should have known better. The bitter lesson of never take anything for granted ever again should have been part of her by now. A not unfamiliar feeling of emptiness made itself known. Only now had she become completely conscious of the autonomy with which she had lived in the past few years and how much she had treasured it. It was difficult at first, having no one to blame when all went wrong, but then belonging to herself was a privilege Sansa had learned to cherish. The sudden realization that she would have to subdue her will to the whims of her husband fill her with lassitude. For the first time in years she had no plans for the morning after. She longed for the morrow, or the next year, so that she could see a path, find purpose and solace in routine once again.

But then she heard a knock at the door connecting her chamber to _his_ and all her contemplations were shattered like a looking-glass thrown against a wall.

“C-come in” she muttered, hopping out of the chair and closing her robe around her.

Her husband’s tall form stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Sansa flinched inwardly until she became conscious that he had every right to be there. “ _What is he doing here? He said he would give me time. He said so”_ his words kept ringing in her exhausted mind like insistent bells.

“My lady” his nod was so subtle that a less observant person would not notice it.

She was about to curtsey, but he waved his hand at her not to trouble herself. The flutter his presence caused in the pit of her stomach was impossible to ignore. Unwanted awareness burned through her. It felt like the time Ser Meryn punched her. She had never quite managed to forget those terrible instants prior to air finally finding its way inside her. At present she felt similarly: out of breath and sickened. But not looking at him would not make him disappear, she thought. She forced her sight to focus on him and clasped her hands together. She saw tired eyes, the suggestion of stubble beginning to show on his jaw and around his scornful mouth. He had removed armour and crown and wore a dark robe but that didn’t make him less intimidating in the least.

“I thought you would be awake” he said, slowly looking about the chamber as if searching for hidden enemies.

She was too agitated for rest.

He apparently had decided that the place was clear of threats and stood stiff and motionless, except for the fingers of one hand that slowly kept tapping the air. The silence became an invisible force that threatened to engulf her. But they could hardly stand there indefinitely. Sansa had to say something and her mind naturally sought shelter in courtesies and trivialities.

“I hope you have had a pleasant night, Your Grace" she said, striving to keep a casual air, but wondering if she would ever get used to the reality of a male presence in her chambers.

“About as pleasant as a fall from a horse” he scoffed, settling his gaze on her, gravely, cautiously, as though he wasn’t entirely convinced whether she was ally or enemy “I will have that damned singer’s tongue removed if I ever have to go through another night listening to him”

“His songs are quite inspiring...” she came into Tom of Sevenstream’s defence although she knew the singer was not really in any danger. Stannis Baratheon was no Joffrey Lannister.

“What is so inspiring about war?” he asked.

“ _Nothing_ ” she thought.

“It is about as inspiring as gutting and skinning a deer after a hunt; simple butchery and bloodshed. If a war story is somehow inspiring, then it’s a lie. There should never be songs in praise of it” he rasped.

“His songs are entertaining” she corrected her previous statement.

“Your brother’s exit was the most entertaining episode of the night. The guests were outraged” he sounded oddly pleased.

_“As pleased as Stannis Baratheon can be”_

“He seems to enjoy behaving like a wildling in public”

“He is slightly worst in private” she smiled with fondness “This time, it was greatly appreciated though”

“Yes, it was well done” he acquiesced.

As the silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable; she began casting around for a topic of conversation that could make the taciturn man keep talking, but this time she found nothing. _“He shouldn’t be here. He said we would wait”_

“Is Your Grace in need of anything?” she asked, hoping the answer was a wholehearted _no_. Her throat was dry and she wished for some water.

“I am. I need you right now”

Her breath became embarrassingly loud in her ears. She glanced at the floor, wishing it would grow teeth to devour her. Any amount of self-possession she still had was threatening to leave her. But his _need_ of her sounded rather business-like and it helped her to not completely loose her ground.

“Is my lady very much tired?”

She was well past weariness but she answered with a shake of her head.

“Come with me”

He walked back to the chamber he was occupying and she followed him mutely, treading without an ounce of elegance. His chambers were considerably colder than hers. The only candles burning were the ones placed on his desk which was covered by a confusion of letters, maps and documents.

“Your Maester told me to treat directly with you about this” he gave her some papers “What is the current situation in your storerooms?”

“Good enough” she answered, running her eyes over the pages which contained lists and numbers of men, horses, weapons and carts.

“Do you think we can take adequate provisions when we depart?”

“Without emptying the storerooms? Certainly. Our situation is comfortable. At least in that regard” she kept a detailed record of everything they had. Her books were well organized. She had forced herself to get familiar with numbers and calculations, to love them as her own kin. “ _Littlefinger would be proud”_ she realized with bitterness.

“Good. We are leaving in a fortnight”

_“So soon?”_ unbearable disappointment ripped through her. She had hoped for at least another month to leave everything in the right place for Rickon. “The King can’t be absent from the capital too long, can he?” she didn’t try to conceal her frustration.

“Not King’s Landing, we are off to Riverrun” he said, pointing to the place on the map in front of him.

“Riverrun?”

“I thought you would be pleased in visiting your mother’s land”

“Why Riverrun?” she decided to ignore his tone, and walked around the desk, stopping by his side to examine the map as well.

“Tyrells mostly. My Hand has sent me word that they believe they can foil me by sending fewer supplies to the capital than was agreed in the terms of surrender. It is all going to Lord Tully’s storerooms”

“The Riverlands were badly affected by the war they can use all help they can get...”

Sansa had never met Edmure Tully, but uncle Brynden would often refer to him as _"that kind-hearted fool..."_

“He is taking more than his rightful share. Margaery Tyrell is piercing her thorns through your uncle’s eyes. I mean to do something about it before he is completely blinded and decides to do something foolish and irreparable”

Would he start a war over supplies? Wars had been started for less, she realized.

“I don’t intend to be at their mercy when we arrive. So let me ask you again: can we take enough supplies from your storerooms when we depart?”

“I shall attend to this matter myself, Your Grace. Come the morning”

He nodded.

“Is the capital in such dire need of the Tyrells and their supplies?”

He remained silent for such a long time she thought he would not grace her with an answer.

“The Targaryen girl left a pile of cinders where once was a city. The flames raged for three days. One year later and the reek of smoke still lingers ” he wrinkled his nose as though he could feel the stink “Some followed her when the dragons were first seen in the skies. They believed she would stop the war, that her monsters were sent by the gods to end winter and sow the fields again”

He spoke in a low grave tone, as if addressing himself, leaving her with the peculiar sensation of shame for prying on his thoughts.

“The only thing she sowed was death, a harvest of corpses. Baratheon, Lannister and Tyrell men, women, children, lords and small folk. The beasts made no distinction. We all burned when they made fire rain from the skies. The air itself, the falling snow, the stench of decay, everything scorched. One would think she feared to leave anything alive to fault her someday“

The song he hated spoke of how the creatures scratched the sun and fire spilled from the wounds, like blood.

“Maybe she thought fire would burn everything clean” she said absentmindedly, maybe the Dragon Queen worshipped fire as well.

“ _She_ has sung that tune to you, has _she_?” he threw her a glare that had her wincing “I thought my lady was a devoted follower of the Seven”

“And the Old Gods as well” she answered sullenly. However, her prayers to either set of gods would often drift to imaginary conversations with her parents and sometimes her siblings. She would ask them, as though they were gods themselves, to look after her and Rickon. She would not let anyone scorn her for her beliefs. “You believe nothing?”

“Both your gods and hers see us as nothing more than weeds. Weeds they need to pluck one by one and yet we insist on being born. We will never stop growing in their garden and ruining it. They are vain and capricious as spoiled children and shall never have my devotion, assuming they exist at all” he said” They don’t interest me, they never did, but I understand you are too young and need such fictions...”

“I’m old enough to know that understanding has little to do with age, Your Grace” she declared with a defensive note in her voice “I might be younger than you, but willing to learn... and I learn fast”

“Do you?”

She wanted to look into his eyes and yell at him. He didn’t take her seriously and she loathed being treated with condescension. But her courage failed her and she preferred to study the contour of his hand spread over the table. There was a tiny thin scar on his thumb.

“Do you mind if I ask Your Grace a question?”

“I do mind but I believe my lady is entitled to ask”

“Does it trouble you that much? That I am younger than you?”

“Yes” he answered promptly.

“May I ask why?” she said a little breathlessly.

He didn’t answer right away, so she stole a sidelong glance at him, watching his throat move as he swallowed. It was plain he didn’t want to answer but somehow she knew he would. That he would always give her a straight out answer no matter what was one of his traits that she was learning to equally appreciate and fear.

“You are young and beautiful with your whole life ahead of you. You don’t need to pretend you are satisfied with this arrangement. If it is for my benefit, know that there is no need for it...”

He kept talking but Sansa was so surprised by his words that she interrupted him.

“Your Grace thinks I am beautiful?” her doubts could be heard in her question.

“You know you are” he was probably the only man in the world who could make a compliment sound like an accusation. She bit her lip, not feeling flattered in the least.

“All I know is that the concept of beauty varies from person to person” she wished he would say anything to stop her from prattling “Some people might find a particular trait attractive whereas others might find it displeasing. I can’t help but think Your Grace.... d-disappointed...”

“As I said, you are too young...”

“...and the last thing you need is a silly girl by your side...”

“... and the last thing I need is to make another woman miserable by marrying her. If such a thing as a happy marriage exists”

“I saw it right in front of me once” Sansa said quietly, caressing the place that marked Winterfell on the map “My parents were happy together”

Ned and Cat, they would call each other. “ _But they were strangers once..._ ”

“My own parents were... quite devoted to each other as well, I think.” his words were noncommittal.

Shireen had told her the story of her grandparents, Steffon and Cassana Baratheon. They died together in a shipwreck while their sons witnessed everything from the battlements in Storm’s End. Sansa knew all too well what was like to watch someone dearly loved dying, and being powerless to stop it. They fell into a long silence again, each one too lost in the maze of their own thoughts to be troubled by it.

“I’ll be as good a husband as I can” he said at last “I’ll do my duty to you and I expect you do the same. I will never demand from you any more than that. But I can’t give you what you want. You must know it.”

“How do you know what I want?” She did not lower her eyes this time.

“It must be what all women at your age and position want” he said dismissively.

She wanted constancy, something that would always be there, within her reach, as sheltering and warm as the walls of Winterfell. Something he had sworn by the Lord of Light to give her when he said his vows. But if he didn’t believe in anything, how could he keep his word? “ _No, he believes his own word”_

“But you mustn't fear me” he continued, in a sharp and commanding tone.

“I do not fear you” and she was rather surprised that she meant what she said.

“This frightened look on your face is how my lady normally looks? My mistake…” he scoffed.

“I am a maiden alone with a man, in his chambers” she replied with a trembling voice.

“Are you really?” he said, watching her closely.

“What?”

“A maiden?”

“Yes!” she blurted, her nervousness giving way to righteous anger, enough to meet his eyes. Her pulse was beating stronger and faster in her throat, and her ears were ringing with the echo of her own outburst. The harsh set of his face gave her the impression that he was once again dissatisfied. Did he expect her to be experienced? Don’t all men expect their brides to be maidens? Did he have such a low opinion of her? If he doubted her, he had all but to see it for himself. A blood-stained spot on a sheet would suffice for him? But what struck her most unexpectedly was that she was rather worried that he did not believe her.

“What happens here is no one’s business but ours”

“And what is going to happen?” she asked plain and simple, fighting the childish impulse of hiding her luminescent blush behind her loose hair.

“We will do our duty when we must, as I have told you before. For now, there is much work to be done”

It took a few breaths before her thoughts finally settled down. Sansa felt both boundless relief and disappointment because part of her was starting to wish to simply consummate this marriage and be done with it. There was also something of a quick twinge of wounded pride that he could so easily dismiss her, that he could be so unaffected by her presence when her entire body ached with nerves.

“I need this ready with no further delay. Do you think you can manage?” he indicated the papers in her hands and spoke in a tone as to indicate that their audience was over.

Sansa nodded, telling herself that she would manage, that and all the rest, as she always had.  She bade him good night and he ducked his head in response.

Sansa walked back to her chambers and closed the door, leaning against it for a while. She would begin by focusing on the task before her. Sorting and organizing accounts and provisions was a task that could entertain her for the next couple of days and that was exactly what she needed at present. She thought about the ceremonies and the brief, chaste kisses that had sealed each of them. Now, coming to think of it, she realized the King had been very considerate throughout the entire ordeal. “ _A silent, irritable sort of thoughtfulness_ ” He would never say the words she had dreamed to hear from her husband but he was courteous enough where it really counted, she concluded, caressing her lips with her knuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, he told her they'd wait.  
> 


	12. Missing

Deepwood Motte stood on a hill, rising tall above a sea of snow covered trees. Its wooden surfaces were so unlike the stony warmth of Winterfell that Sansa had to make constant efforts to swim against the waves of homesickness that wanted to drag her too far away from reality and drown everything else. It was a bright afternoon; the low layer of clouds was getting thinner and higher with each passing day. _“One day it might dissolve completely, this silver sky might fade into blue again”_. From the terrace was possible to see for miles and miles into the Wolfswood. Shireen could be anywhere.

Shireen had disappeared after lunch. Sansa was listening to Lady Glover prattle yet again about the farewell feast she would offer in honour of the King that very night, when a panic-stricken Steffon Seaworth came in search of the Princess. The last time Sansa saw Shireen, the girl had cordially refused Lady Glover’s invitation for tea, claiming that she would rest until it was time for the celebrations. Secretly glad for the excuse to leave the other woman's company, Sansa went straight to her husband only to find him pouring all his rage out on Ser Gendry. “ _You swore an oath to guard her with your life! Come back with her or not at all!”_

The King’s fury was indeed a sight to behold, but the Knight bore the shame with quiet grace, not once looking down. Then he left on his own. No sooner was he off than her husband managed to organize several searching parties, most of which had already returned without Shireen. Meanwhile, Sansa organized a searching party of her own. Rickon had insisted she took a pack of men personally selected by him to protect her “ _You are not going to that mousetrap of a capital on your own!”_ he had firmly said  and she was not going to disagree.

 _“We have but to wait now”_ Sansa thought as a sudden gust of cold wind swallowed her sigh, reminding her that winter still held the world captive in a firm grasp. She pulled her fur cloak closer to her body and retreated into the wooden hall of the Glovers. But she immediately stopped, recalling why she had sought shelter outside in the first place. Her husband had been pacing up and down like a confined bear, deaf to her attempts at conversation since the Princess’ disappearance had been noticed.

Sansa stepped back and observed him for a while. The echo of his strides was loud against the hardwood floor; his posture was tenser than usual, as if he was never quite comfortable, carrying himself in swift and forceful movements. He didn’t say a word, but it was obvious that he was beside himself with worry, his face contorted as though all sorts of dreadful thoughts were flashing through his mind.

It was a rather new and unanticipated pastime this one she had fallen into. Inadvertently, she would study him like an acolyte that finds a new and obscure yet strangely fascinating subject and craves a better command of it. Some things were easier to learn than others. By now she knew that he never smiled or relaxed, that he had no vices and admitted no follies. She would also study his frowns and snorts, would observe him riding among his men or while he sat with them. He dressed like them, ate what they eat and yet there was something about him that set him apart from everyone else. Or maybe she was just too aware of him, a sort of awareness that came as an uninvited guest that refused to go away.

“Your Grace shouldn’t worry so much” Sansa said, trying to render her voice soft but failing. She detested the way her own voice sounded when she talked to him, always a little breathless, never in full command of her words “I’m sure the Princess shall return at any moment”

"How can you be sure?" back and forth he went.

Sansa was not worried, not yet. She knew Shireen. Taking a walk and exploring a new place until her curiosity was completely satisfied was just what she would do. Actually, it was a relief to see the girl showing interest for something again. What had truly worried Sansa had been the terrible apathy that had hovered over her friend like mist over water since they have left Winterfell. Shireen would spend most of her time abed or gazing out the window. Her books lay unread by her bedside, her harp forgotten on a corner. Not even the Mormonts, Bandy or Shyra were able to engage her in conversation. The normally eloquent, curious princess reduced her speech to monosyllables and sad sighs.

“ _She is just weary of travelling, Your Grace”_ had been Sansa’s answer to all her husband’s inquiries.

She knew all too well that the Princess’ lethargy had nothing to do with weariness and it had deeper, more troublesome roots. Sansa could recognize the symptoms because she had felt them too. She missed Winterfell so much already that every reminiscence was a flaming arrow that hit her chest, burning holes in her heart. She missed the warm walls, the smells, the sounds, and the sense of safety. Most of all she missed the people left behind...Rickon was never wandering very far from her mind. Sansa bit her lip and shook her head, chastising herself for allowing her thoughts to stray into that path. The game of missing was every bit as cruel and bitter as the game of thrones.

“Night will soon fall and she will come back” Sansa pointed out.

“Has she done this before?” he spoke in the rushed, somewhat aggressive tone she had heard him using to question his men.

“It’s a habit of hers, taking a walk before supper…”

Her words made him stop pacing and glare at her. “A habit, you say? Where would she go?”

“To the battlements, the Godswood or even the crypts…” anywhere she fancied and the cold weather permitted.

“And you let her?!” veins bulged on his forehead when he was angry.

“Why should I prevent the Princess from such a small pleasure?” she asked, not liking the path his questions were taking them “She was a ward to Winterfell, not a hostage”

“A girl alone amidst savages and beasts” he sounded disgusted.

She wanted to reassure him that she would never let his daughter stroll by herself on dangerous grounds, that normally Rickon or Shaggydog would be with her and as far as Sansa knew, being by their side was one of the safest places to be. But then his ill judgment of her kin and land made her gnash her teeth.

“There are no _savages_ or _beasts_ in Winterfell, Your Grace…” she answered sharply, her patience hanging by a very thin thread.

“Do you call wildlings and direwolves by any other name?”

“Shaggydog was never a danger…” she met his inflexible gaze “…to Shireen. There was a time when both of us would sleep better knowing that he was there to safeguard our door”.

“We don’t need to have this conversation again” he swept past her and went to the balcony, clutching the wooden carved rail.

Sansa took a deep, frustrated breath and let it out slowly. It was no wonder that their interactions constantly ended in a similar fashion. She blamed him for it. Why did he have to be so prickly and wilful? It seemed at times that he did it on purpose, just to vex her.

" _Make no mistake, my Queen. The King can be as stubborn as an old aurochs”_ the Lady Melisandre had cautioned her “ _But he listens. He might not like what he hears and he will certainly let you know it, but he is always willing to listen before making up his mind. He even listens to me every once in a while"_.

At first, Sansa had not believed her, and the hard-learned lesson of being careful when stating her opinions in public, keeping them deliberately vague, was too deeply seated in her mind. “ _Let them play the guessing game. Listen more than you speak and when you do so, tell them what they want to hear”_ , Littlefinger would say. But she soon found out that the priestess was right. The King wanted to hear his Queen. Or rather, he demanded to hear her, with blunt commands, always expecting equally clear-cut answers. And since Rickon was extremely disobliging in his dealings with the King, she had taken her brother’s place in those endless gatherings of the council. Yet, in spite of the fact that they had been more or less able to speak freely, he disregarded most of her efforts at intimate conversation, as if she had some ulterior motive to get to know her own husband better.

 _“Is that how my blessed future is going to be?”_ Sansa almost questioned the Lady Melisandre before the woman left for White Harbour, where she embarked on the ship that took her and a rather generous load of supplies from Winterfell’s storerooms, straight to the capital.

“ _The Onion Knight needs my aid”_ , the red priestess said with that eerily calm voice of hers.

“ _He would sooner need to cut off his remaining fingers. But go if you must”_ , the King answered. He showed no emotion at the priestess departure and even though Sansa was pleased at that, it was upsetting to realize that other woman knew her husband so much better than herself.

But Sansa was learning, learning to read him and right now he was worried, overcome with it, and unable to hide it. That was why she wanted to sustain a proper anger, but could not. Gulping down her own qualms, she moved closer to him and let a tentative hand lay on his, placing the other on his arm, careful to not press against his still healing wound. Maester Alleras had strongly advised him to put his arm to rest on a sling but the King was adamant in his refusal. Her gesture snapped him out of his dark musings and made him turn his face to look at her, his frown firmly in place. She braced herself for some harsh retort, but none came.

They had kept a tacit, careful distance from each other, since the wedding day. Their touches were always encased in gloved hands or restricted by their heavily clothed limbs, limited to the context of necessity and civility. His hands around her waist as he assisted her dismounting, her hands using his shoulders for balance, his side warm against hers as they sat next to each other at mealtimes. But certainly, there was nothing improper in touching his hand; certainly she was entitled to such small intimacy as his wife.

“Her horse is missing from the stables” he murmured.

“The day is bright and the snow is not deep…”

“It’s knee-deep…”

“It’s hardly heel-deep…” she interrupted, smirking to herself.

“It’s deep enough in places to get into a man’s boots” he insisted.

“The weather is favourable and the Princess thoroughly enjoys horse-riding...” Sansa calmly contradicted him “...unlike the Queen” she offered him a self-deprecating smile.

Sansa, never being an outdoors person, hated riding; it left her sore in the thighs, stiff in the back, bruised all over and completely dishevelled. When they were children, her lack of skill was an endless source of mockery to Arya, who could ride as though she was one with the horse. The last time Sansa had to sit on a saddle was when she made the journey back home and after that she didn’t feel particularly inclined to leave again.

In spite of that, she believed she was doing a fine job of hiding her discomfort from the King. It was only when they reached Deepwood Mott, after several days of journeying through the Wolfswood, that she became aware she should be a pitiable sight. Her husband assisted her dismounting, as had become his habit. She thanked him with a barely suppressed groan of pain and he frowned in response; looking at her with the knifelike gaze she was becoming familiar with, a gaze which betrayed a hint of concern that time. Then, he announced to no one in particular that they would prolong their stay with the Glovers, and it was the sweetest thing she had heard from his lips ever since they married. She would have kissed his cheek right then but he would probably not appreciate such displays.

 _“But Your Grace…that will delay our progress_ …” Lord Massey tried to reason but the King silenced him with just one hard glare. He had the rather useful talent of intimidating his subjects without much of an effort.

“ _I am glad Your Grace and the Princess are here”_ Ser Gendry confided to her and Shireen soon after “ _The King would never make so many exceptions and stops along the way on normal circumstances”_.

Sansa had heard several accounts on how her husband had never hesitated before making his men ride through a snowstorm. However, he would never impose any hardship on them that he was not willing to suffer himself and his notorious inflexibility, although dreaded by his enemies, was a trait respected by most of those who followed his leadership. It made him a just leader, one who would apply the same rules to everyone. “ _The law ought to be followed, that is what laws are for,_ ” she had heard him saying. He was wholly committed to his duties. She suspected that they would always come first, before family or even before himself.

Sansa was beginning to take a certain pride in being wife to such a man. The white cloaks would proudly speak of their campaigns. Uncle Brynden would often commend the King and his tactic decisions. Even Lady Glover had been delighted to have him as a guest, always exalting His Grace’s bravery which had freed her from the tentacles of that terrible Asha Greyjoy. As a result, the king avoided the Lady of Deepwood Mott as though she had been afflicted with some noxious illness. In fact, his usual reaction was to scowl his way through any demonstration of flattery.

Yes, she kept telling herself, she might even grow fond of her husband, in time, if only he would not insist on being so dour and unattainable, a man who would never offer a needless word when silence would do. Now Sansa knew from whom Shireen had inherited her tendency for sporadic bouts of introspection.

“Perhaps she has returned to Winterfell” hopeful, tired eyes looked straight at her, as though begging her to gainsay his fears and she felt something gripping at her heart.

“Why would she do such a reckless thing?” she asked while knowing very well why “I’d say that you don’t know your own daughter” she said, instantly regretting her words. The ghost of some bitter, poignant emotion passed over his face, and he turned away from her, staring out into the grey landscape before them.

She had caught him on more than one occasion, observing Shireen with a sad frown, as if he could not quite understand what was before him. Sansa supposed it was inevitable, that time and circumstance changed people. But when one is not there to witness the transformation is quite the shock facing one who is changed. _“He left a little girl behind, and found a young woman in her place”_. A young woman whose sweet demeanour concealed a strong independence of character. Shireen too had fallen out of the habit of asking permission to do as she liked, but as far as Sansa knew, the girl had always used her freedom wisely.

“She wouldn’t do this to us” Sansa reasoned “She is too sensible”

“Even sensible people can lose sight of their wits on occasion”.

He seemed angry. “ _Angry with himself?”_

His weary sigh made her consider if he spoke of his own experience again. And if it was the case, she wondered what sort of thing would make a man such as him lose sight of his wits, him who was made of some unyielding will-power that unsettled her.

“My guards will find her” Sansa said, trying to sound matter of fact. She had a guard of ten dozen capable young wildlings led by a reticent Hal Mollen. The older warriors would not be persuaded to leave Winterfell again, not after what had succeeded last time. They would do as Rickon commanded, of course, but Sansa convinced him to not impose such fate on anybody else.

“And you are sure of that as well?” he said with slight irony in his voice. He turned to look at her, one arm resting on the rail.

“I am” she answered with a confident smile “The free folk can read signs in the snow as surely as Your Grace can read all those dull reports. They will find her. We have but to sit and wait, preferably by the fire” She gently tugged his arm to lead him back to the hall but he didn’t move an inch.

“Was this how you made through the winter? Sitting by and hoping for the best?”

If she didn’t know better, she would believe he was teasing her.

“Oh, I was certainly hoping for the best but it can hardly be said that I was sitting by. None of us were” making through the winter had required everyone’s sweat and blood “There was not much room for indolence”

“I have heard as much”

While Sansa was trying not to be overly concerned about what he might have heard she felt her breath catching when she noticed that they were now leaning against the rail, facing each other and that he had been little by little moving closer, bending towards her. She kept her hand on his arm. Now and again, it seemed he was studying her as well, with a curious glimmer in his eyes. Perhaps something about her disconcerted him too?

“ _Hardly,”_ she thought with a scoff.

The arrival of several people made them look away from each other. Lord Glover, Lord Massey, Alysane Mormont and some men walked in and bowed before them.

“Uncle!” Sansa ran to Ser Brynden as soon as he walked in as well. Her husband followed her. She threw a questioning look at the Blackfish but the only answer he offered was an unpromising shake of his head.

Now Sansa was starting to worry. Where could Shireen possibly be? She looked at her husband and saw his jaw working from side to side, eyes narrowing, his features hardened to stone.

“Steffon!” he roared.

The squire, who was never out of earshot, immediately presented several maps and spread them over a table, one of them showed a detailed depiction of the Wolfswood and nearby villages. Sansa stood by her husband’s side and watched him as he gave orders to the men.

“We are going as far as the borderland villages this time. Ask the Maester to send a raven to Winterfell. Tell Lord Stark to send men to aid the searching”

“Is this really necessary, Your Grace?” questioned a bemused Lord Glover.

The King slammed his fist on the table, thunderous eyes glaring at the man, who instantly bowed and left. The whole hall went still.

“ _One less claimant to the Dreadfort”_ Sansa thought.

Some lords had left Winterfell with the royal party under the excuse of attending the King’s wedding at the capital, but what they really wanted was to pressure him into naming a new Lord for the former seat of the Boltons. The searching for Shireen had disrupted yet another gathering to settle the matter. The fate of that cursed place had sparked several quarrels in the past few weeks but no one could hope to persuade the King to hold council while the whereabouts of his daughter remained unknown.

While he was telling them that he would lead the searches himself, as he should have done from the start, he took no notice of the Princess walking in, escorted by Ser Gendry and Lord Glover. Sansa nudged him and nodded towards the entrance. She heard him exhale a rather subtle breath of relief.

Pale and tremulous, Shireen blinked in surprise when she found herself under the scrutiny of all those who were crowding the hall.

“Your Graces” she made a clumsy curtsey “Lady Mormont, my Lords”

The King took her appearance in for a while, and then he strode towards the girl, halting abruptly when he was in front of her. For a moment, it seemed he was going to reach out to embrace his daughter, as any concerned father would certainly have done, but something made him stop. For a moment, they stared at each other. They never spoke much but their silences were often shrouded by a strange peace.

“Where were you?” he asked with the gravest face.

“I went out for a horse ride and I lost track of time...” the Princess answered in a low, timid voice.

 _“See?”_ Sansa wanted to say. She cast a triumphant glance at her husband but his eyes were mercilessly fixed on the Princess.

“Forgive me if I made you worry…” The fact that the Princess held her father's reproving gaze so firmly spoke highly of her.

"Why did you leave without escort?"

“I just wanted to look around. I was telling Lord Glover that the beauty of his lands had me enchanted. I’ve never been so deep in the Wolfswood before, it reminded me of the stories about the children of the forest. I let my eyes take charge and the horse went its own way”

Lord Glover offered her a pleased smile the Princess did her best to return. But her chin was slightly trembling, and it was plain she was struggling to restrain her tears.

“It can never happen again. Do you understand?” the King stated rather severely. He was never harsh or sardonic to Shireen, even his scowl would give way to something softer in her presence.

The shamefaced girl merely nodded in answer, clearly unprepared for such inquiry. Sansa thought best to interfere before her friend broke down and cried.

“The Princess is chilled” she said with a sympathetic smile on her face, wrapping one arm around Shireen and rubbing her shoulder with one hand “Excuse us, my lords”

And without waiting for anyone, she made a quick job of walking away from the hall. Along the way she ordered the servants to prepare a bath and fetch something warm for the Princess to eat in the kitchens.

“Is Ser Gendry in trouble?” Shireen whispered worriedly as they walked.

“No, he will be fine” Sansa reassured her.

“I keep forgetting that he is supposed to escort me. I don’t want him to be punished on my account”

Shireen didn’t have to know that Ser Gendry had been very close to lose his head on her account. Not just yet.

They entered the Princess’s chambers and the handmaidens gathered there stood, leaving their needlework. Sansa requested Osha to ask around the household if any of the girls were interested in serving her in King’s Landing. Bandy and Shyra, two lively girls, Robert’s little friends as he liked to call them, were the first to volunteer. They immediately started fussing over Shireen, helping her out of her heavy damp garments. When they were done, Sansa dismissed them as well, claiming she herself would assist the Princess.

By the time Shireen was finally rid of that awful smell of horse and dressed in a clean nightgown, darkness had already fallen. Sansa made the girl sit in the middle of the bed, enveloping her in blankets and furs she had left warming by the fire. Then she placed a mug of hot sweetened milk in the Princess’s hands, sitting behind her to comb her windswept hair.

The Hound would call Sansa _little bird_ but it was Shireen who had always struck her as truly birdlike. Slender, with rich dark hair and large curious eyes that missed nothing, she moved in brisk, graceful movements. “ _Is your nest cosy enough, fat bird?_ ” Rickon would jest whenever he’d see her reading by the hearth, draped with several layers of furs, drawn into a world of her own. But his banter would only make the girl chuckle and use a book to hit him when he sat close to her. She had a warm, kind smile. Sansa would not mind having a daughter like her; she would not mind it at all.

“Your hair is all tangled” Sansa sighed with teasing disapproval “Next time you decide to go on a horse ride, remember to braid it”

“I am sorry” she spoke softly.

“You should be. You have such pretty hair”

“There is nothing special in it” she said dismissively, sounding disturbingly like her father. But unlike him, Shireen was never dismissive of anyone except herself.

“It’s dull black”

“It is silky black” Sansa insisted with a hint of outrage “I know of two young Lords who quite agree with me”

Thinking of those two made both of them smile. Sansa felt rather apprehensive about leaving them to their own devices. _“You are making an orphan of Robert again”_ Osha only meant to jest about the motherly affection the Princess had always given to the Lord of the Vale. She could not know that Sansa was to some extent caught up in the death of Lysa Arryn. Sansa told the truth to not a soul but uncle Brynden. Robert would never have to know.

At that very instant, years later, the grotesque scene of her aunt’s fall seemed unreal, something that had nothing to do with Sansa’s current existence, something she had seen in a foggy nightmare. Maybe her mind had decided to bury that memory together with other unpleasant ones. She was no stranger to the tricks the mind could play sometimes: crafting memories that never were, exaggerating the horror and sweetness of others while condemning some to eternal oblivion, and it was through such deceptions that people were able to bear the weight of all the things they had seen, endured and done. But certain things were forever etched in the mind. _“I rescued you from the Lannisters and I rescued you from the Moon Door. Maidens must reward their knights with sweet kisses”_. She should not think of them, both were long gone and neither could hurt her anymore.

“Do you think they are feeding Robert?” a feeble, worried voice asked her.

Sansa could not hold back a laugh, but Shireen was dead serious.

“They might forget him! He has an injured leg and can’t walk by himself”

“I’m sure that Osha will not let Robert starve”

“Osha is always busy; everyone is so busy in Winterfell. There is always something to do...”

“Don’t worry. If anyone dares to forget Robert, he will shout and whine and remind them” Sansa grinned as she wove the girl’s hair into a long braid. Shireen finished the milk and Sansa placed the mug on the nightstand. “But now that we are alone, would you mind telling me what you were really up to?”

“We leave tomorrow. It was my last chance to say goodbye to Shaggydog”

“Shaggydog?” Sansa echoed in disbelief, moving to sit in front of Shireen.

“He has been following us since we left. Have you not noticed it?”

She hasn’t. Trying to stay on her saddle, and then trying to recover from saddle-soreness, had demanded all her concentration. Fortunately, the throbbing pain lodged in her muscles had lastly subsided. She ought to thank her husband for giving her the time she needed to recover instead of forcing her to proceed.

“He would not let me go. I yelled at him to leave me alone” Shireen said wistfully, lying down to rest her head on Sansa’s lap “Please, tell me that I did not disrupt the council meeting”

“Those meetings tend to last longer than they have to. Honestly, you did your father a favour”

“Is he very much angry?”

“No, it would take a lot more than that to make him angry with you. But he was so worried”

Shireen tilted her head up to look at her, eyes gleaming with a mixture of realization and wonder. “You are getting along quite well, aren’t you?” she smiled her gentle, pensive smile, lying down again “I’m glad.”

Sansa didn’t know what made Shireen assume that. Years of trying to warg her way under different skins, had not prepared her for the strain of being Stannis Baratheon's wife. Her dealings with him had been little more than a succession of disagreements. Their opinions would often clash and Sansa blamed him yet again for it. After all, he was the one with a penchant for stating opinions and disagreements with candour and derision. She would often feel that he could see right through her practised courtesies and fake composure. Sansa was never able to fully concentrate on anything when he was near her. Her hands were never quite steady. Her skin would prickle as though she was standing outside with no furs to warm her.

It was not that he frightened her. By now she knew, with a conviction she couldn't define, that he would never hurt her. He could have forced himself on her and claimed what was lawfully his anytime he so choose and no one would have stopped him. “ _And he is eager for an heir...”_ She acknowledged that he had rights, even though she despised the idea of anyone having rights over her. But he would never try to approach too closely. She had always assumed it shouldn’t be a simple endeavour for a man to set such urges completely aside, not when most men with whom she had crossed paths had seemed to want that from her. _“I am safe with him_ ” she had realized with astonishing surprise. And still, something made her shrink from him and him wary of her. Or perhaps he was not interested in her and his indifference was more bothersome than she was comfortable to admit.

It was as though they kept sailing without reaching a harbour, and she was subsisting in a constant state of expectation, on edge for something that never came to pass, longing for a definition to such unnatural, unconsummated situation. “ _His wife and not his wife”_. It was not so much of a problem in Winterfell, where they had their own separate chambers. But since they left, it had become an embarrassment. Sansa could not ignore the questioning looks when she walked away from Shireen’s chambers in the morning instead of his.

She needed something to happen, anything to put an end to that constant tension. She was not one to live in halves “ _Never again”_. She would lay awake at night, glaring into the darkness, tossing in the bed she did not share with him, a hostage to her own thoughts, expecting… “ _Expecting what?_ _He has not even kissed me yet_...”

She had been kissed before but never of her own volition. Kisses that tasted like wine and mint, that alternately excited, flattered, shamed and disgusted her. There was no fright or shame at his closeness. He was her husband and it would strike her more and more often that his nearness was not distasteful to her. Actually, his strength was oddly comforting and she would often catch herself wondering what it would be like....

She flushed hotly, wishing it was possible to simply shut down the place where such notions acquired shape, good thing Shireen could not read her mind. The girl seemed to have her own share of unsettling thoughts to contend with.

“Sing to me?” Shireen asked.

“Of course” Sansa smiled, caressing her hair, welcoming some distraction “What do you want to hear?”

The princess considered the possibilities for a while.

“That one Osha taught us” her answer came in the form of a sad sigh “The song about the giant.”

“Oh, but it’s so cheerless. Wouldn’t you rather hear something merrier?” Sansa would gladly sing the odious “ _The bear and the maiden fair”_ to humour her fried a little.

Shireen shook her head. “Never mind”

Sansa heaved a sigh. Sometimes, all a sorrowful person seems to want is to nourish her own misery. Thus she began to sing the disheartening story of the last giant. A song that had always spoke to her of longing. Shireen closed her eyes and listened to it in a solemn silence. The giant’s misfortunes would always move her, make tears rise to her eyes. For some reason, it was one of Rickon’s favourites too.

They had been apart for over a fortnight and it was as though a piece of Sansa was missing. _“He is not a child, he will be fine,”_ another song she kept singing to herself. They held each other for a long time on the day of departure, neither willing to let go. Sansa would offer him none of her ready-made words of sympathy and soothe. Those were for people to whom she felt no particular attachment. She was determined to control herself in order to endure the parting with some dignity, even though her eyes were burning with tears unshed for pride’s sake.

" _Promise me one thing, please"_ , she said, surprised that the high-pitched noises that left her mouth sounded like actual words. “ _Anything_ ” he answered. But whatever meaningful words she had for him were erased from her lips as her gaze fell on his hands. “ _Gods! You are the Warden of the North and the brother of the Queen! Can’t you keep your fingernails clean?”_ was all she managed to say to her brother. He replied by saying in a humorous lilt that the King would repudiate her publicly in no time, if she insisted on being so insufferable. “ _But have no fear. I shall welcome my disgraced sister home when time comes”._ She shoved him aside and walked away, knowing that there would be no way to stop sobs from flying out her throat if she didn’t leave soon. Both evaded saying farewell. “ _What an ill-omened, treacherous word,_ ” she thought.

“He is so lonesome, isn’t he?” Shireen’s soft voice startled her a little.

“Who?”

“The giant ” the Princess exhaled a long, sad breath “Hunted and destitute, with nothing left to love”

“He is a giant; he should find strength enough in himself to persevere. I’ve seen very small people handling worse things than loneliness just fine.” She too knew a thing or two about being hunted and destitute.

“I saw a giant when I was at the Wall. He looked so frightened and sad, just like the giant in the song” she said with an unsteady voice, tracing some invisible pattern on the blanket with the tip of her fingers “People can do terrible things when they are sad, things they don’t mean to do, just to feel something else. The Night’s Watch men killed him. I heard them saying it was an act of kindness. Was it ?"

Sansa didn’t know what to answer to that, but she stayed there, humming soft tunes, until her companion fell asleep. She tucked the blankets and furs carefully around the sleeping girl, praying that she had a quiet, dreamless repose. She then tiptoed out of the chamber, closing the door behind her.

She was met in the hallway by the sudden vision of a white form, and for a brief moment she thought it meant her harm. But then she realized there was no reason to fear a white cloak anymore. “ _Not this one or devout Ser Devan”_

“Your Grace” Ser Gendry said with an ungainly bow.

“Ser Gendry” she had to constantly remind herself not to curtsey. The Queen should ever drop curtseys before the King.

“I heard singing” he said blushing, diffident in tone “Your Grace sings like a bird...” then he blushed redder as if realizing he had spoken out of turn.

Sansa gave him an encouraging smile. She held Ser Gendry in high regard. A blacksmith turned Knight, and yet more dignified than any of the guards who served under Joffrey. She was glad that Arya had had a friend in him, for a while at least.

“What song was that?” there was a rustic forthrightness to him that reminded her of Mya Stone.

“The last of the giants, a song of the free folk” she answered “The Princess is fond of it”

“Is the Princess well?” he asked with a concerned frown.

“Quite well, just a little weary” she said. “ _Too weary if she fell asleep so easily._ ”

“I promise, Your Grace, that I will never leave the Princess out of my sight again. The King entrusted me with the greatest of honours...”

“Then he must have had a good reason for doing so”

“I will not disappoint him again,” the Knight said resolvedly.

Lately, it seemed that everyone’s purpose had narrowed down to that one unfeasible goal: not to disappoint His Grace. Sansa gave him an understanding look and walked away to attend to her duties.

Hal Mollen awaited her at the end of the corridor. He escorted her to the hall and Sansa commended him for the fine job he was doing at leading her guard. They met Ser Devan and Steffon Seaworth along the way and the squire informed her that the King had dismissed both Seaworth brothers, claiming he had work to do and had no wish to be disturbed until it was time for the council recommence its activities.

“Very well.” Sansa was not surprised. It seemed that the burden of bearing Lady Glover’s farewell feast had fallen exclusively to her. It was probably for the best. Her husband had very limited amount of patience for anything that required small talk on normal circumstances, after the day’s incident he ought to be especially snappish.

She considered going back to her chambers for a change of gowns but she brushed the idea off, afraid of finding him there. She had Lady Glover to thank for that. Believing that newlyweds would have no use for separate chambers, the woman took the initiative of accommodating them in the same space. She looked so pleased that Sansa did not have the heart to contradict her and demand a chamber of her own. She had walked in several times to find her husband working behind the table he had claimed for his desk. In such instances, he would tactfully leave; she would take the chance to change clothes and run off to Shireen’s chambers before he returned. The Princess was so used to sharing a bed with Sansa that she didn’t ask many questions.

 _“Best to leave him alone.”_ She had forgotten her gloves in Shireen’s chambers but she could warm her hands in the folds of her cloak. Her hair was neatly braided into a bun at her nape. It would do.

The feast turned out to be a subdued affair. The food was good enough; the same old songs were played yet again. Sansa did what was expected of her, a short speech in praise of the hosts, a toast to the King’s health. Still, Lady Glover could not hide her disappointment at his absence. Sansa privately thanked the woman in his name for her hospitality as well as her assistance in persuading Lord Glover to allow the ironborn the right to exploit the Wolfswood. The King had entrusted Asha Greyjoy with the task of rebuilding the royal fleet and they needed timber for new ships.

Convincing Rickon had been an entirely different matter, though.

“ _You are already on his side!”_ her brother accused her.

“ _I’m just trying to do what is best..._ ” she answered.

“ _By allowing the Greyjoys to dispose freely of our lands? Best for whom? I bet that wench will rebuild her own fleet and turn against him the first chance she gets! That will teach the stag what happens to those who put their trust on krakens. They drown! Tell your husband that he can pay his bloody allies with his own coin”_ he growled, rather dramatically.

“ _It is his coin”_ she retorted _“He is the King and he doesn’t require your consent or mine!”_ and regardless of how much she reasoned her brother would not concur. But in the end they reached an agreement. The work of cutting the trees and preparing the timber would be done by Deepwood Motte men, and then the final product would be shipped off to Pyke.

Trying to please everyone was getting increasingly difficult and tiresome.

Sansa stifled a yawn, feeling heavy-eyed, wishing to retire. The lords at the table provided a tedious company that night. They were obviously abstaining from drinking. Even notorious drunks like the Greatjon and Wylis Manderley, who had come in his father’s stead. She listened to their talk, watched their anxious expressions. Their conversation revolved around the same tedious subject over and over again. Some had tried to coax the King’s decision out of her with flattery and jests, some more subtly than others. Lady Dustin was as direct as Sansa expected her to be.

“Has the King finally reached a decision regarding the Lordship of the Dreadfort?”

“His Grace has chosen not to disclose his intentions to anyone but the members of the council” Sansa sat next to the woman, making it impossible to avoid her.

“Lord Manderly, no doubt” Lady Dustin said with caustic assurance “That wily bucket of tripe will not die before becoming the wealthiest man in the North”

Sansa glanced at the woman with slight surprise. She was of the same opinion as hers and told the King as much. Unlike Lady Dustin, she tried to embellish her speech with courteous words, but that was only good to make him lose his temper.

“ _Speak plainly, will you!”_ he demanded.

Feeling rather out of sorts, she told him that it was not seemly that the Manderlys of White Harbour should become more influential than the ruling House in the North. “ _White Harbour is a thriving port. Lord Manderly is already affluent enough as it is. With the lands and incomes of the Dreadfort he will be better off than us.”_ she said. Us, the Starks, she couldn’t quite see herself as a Baratheon or anything else for that matter.

“ _Who would be my Queen’s choice?”_ he asked, each word honed with condescension.

“ _No one. I would rather have it burn to the ground. Just like the Twins”_ she answered with fervour that surprised them both. “ _Anyone but Lord Manderly or Lady Dustin”_. Sansa brought the woman to the discussion merely out of spite. Conversely, she provided quite the interesting company when her venom was poisoning someone else.

“His next move is to associate his name with House Stark, mark my words” Lady Dustin said “He has been scheming all these years to make it happen. What other reason could he possibly have to keep that pretty granddaughter of his unmarried? Your brother will have to marry someone sooner or later”

Sansa had noticed the Manderlys’ intentions the moment they arrived at Winterfell. Wylla Manderly and Rickon had much in common. “T _emperament, ancestry, preferences...”_ It could be either a perfect match or a terrible one.

“Too bad Lord Stark’s affections lie somewhere else” Lady Dustin added casually.

Sansa kept her eyes on her cup to conceal her surprise. That woman was much too perceptive.

“There must be something about Starks that is invariably captivating to Baratheons, or is it the other way around?”

“And why do you believe that Lord Manderly will be chosen?” Sansa asked, making use of a queen’s prerogative to change subjects whenever she pleased.

“He claims he was the first of us to embrace the King’s cause. That and the fact that his plotting with the Onion Knight brought the Queen’s own brother back from the dead. It seems reason enough for bestowing a lordship on someone”

 _Lord-too-fat_ was the gracious epithet used by the King to refer to the Lord of White Harbour. Sansa tried not to chortle the first time she heard it. Lord Massey and the Lady Melisandre were present and she did not want them to deem her childish.

“He was not the first. Lord Flint was” Sansa replied.

Both women looked at the old man who was engaged in conversation with uncle Brynden and Alysane Mormont. It was with the support of the mountain clans that the King managed to retake Deepwood Motte.

“Any House stands a better chance than House Dustin. We opened the gates of Winterfell to the King during the siege, but that is seldom remembered these days"

"Maybe you should change your words to _We who opened the gates_ as a reminder. Good deeds are far easier to forget than slights” Sansa said as a friendly warning.

Lady Dustin’s answer was an unconcerned sneer.

Sansa had endured that feast long enough. If it was expected of her to be up and ready by morning, she’d better go to bed. The mere thought of climbing on the back of a blasted horse again made her almost groan out loud but there was no other way to travel through the muddy roads. Before she was allowed to leave, Lord Glover insisted on offering a toast in her honour. After that, uncle asked if she wanted him to accompany her back to her chambers but she declined, telling him to enjoy the festivity. Ser Devan escorted her instead.

When she finally opened the door to their chambers, a biting cold almost made her close it again. Apparently, the servants had neglected tending to the fire in the King's rooms. The dying flames cast a dim glow, filling the place with dense shadows, making it unpleasantly chilly. She shivered and tucked her woollen scarf closer to her neck. Venturing further into the darkened chamber, she walked to the pile of wood by the fireplace and took two logs.

“What are you doing?” said a low voice in the darkness.

Sansa was very proud of herself. She didn’t jump or screech, although her heart skipped several bits. She stood motionless, like a thief caught in the act of stealing, until she warily looked over her shoulder. Her husband was sitting on a chair in the darkest corner of the room.

“K-kindling the fire” she answered, her throat went a bit dry.

“Call a servant”

“I can manage it”

“Are you cold?”

“Are you not?” she scoffed, wondering why he was there in the dark.

A couple of slow, resolute strides brought him to her side. He placed a heavy warm fur on her shoulders. Sansa caught her breath, surprised at the courteous gesture.

"Thank you" she murmured.

Then, without saying a word, he took the logs from her hands and begun to tend the fire himself. She watched while he prodded the embers with an iron poker until he unearthed some that were still golden and burning, placing a log there. They stood in silence for a moment, a smothering, terrible silence that would often fall between them. She’d rather argue with him.

“Your Grace’s absence was greatly lamented" she said the first thing that came into her mind "Lady Glover was inconsolable”

“There was work to be done” he said with a fatigued exhalation.

“ _In the cold? In the dark?”_ she thought. “I told her as much” she said instead “All in all, it was a half-hearted celebration. They are all too worried about the fate of the Dreadfort to indulge in something else”

“Are they?” he scowled, poking at the logs which had sparked and crisped into flames “North or South, East or West, they all want something. They all expect rewards for doing their duty when their loyalty should be implicitly mine, not that I expect any of my subjects to be capable of that”

“And which of your loyal subjects is going to be rewarded this time?” she asked, feeling curious as well.

He gave her a long, measuring look before answering. “Lord Flint of the Mountain Clans”

She grinned in surprise. “It’s probably the most sensible choice”

“I’m glad my Queen approves of my decisions” he said dryly.

“The mountain clans were the first to answer their king’s summons and the other lords can not dispute that. It certainly puts an end to their quarrels” she said, feeling warmth spreading over her skin which meant that she should be blushing fiercely. But in the half-light he mistook her reaction for something else.

“Still cold?” he frowned.

“The walls here are wooden. It was so warm in Winterfell that I forgot the rest of the world is frozen” she said, rubbing her arms under her cloak.

“Do you miss it much?” he asked, looking at the fire.

For a long time the whole world had seemed to be contained in Winterfell and nothing existed beyond its walls. Sometimes, she believed she drew strength from those warm, dark stones. It was the place where she had been most happy, the only place where she ever had any happiness.

"Oh, I miss it terribly" she admitted, staring into the fire as though she could catch a glimpse of her home, but it seemed that such gift was a privilege restricted to the Lady Melisandre.

“Shireen too will miss it terribly?” he asked, morosely stirring the flames.

“It has been her home for the past years. She left many friends behind”

“Friends such as _Lord Stark_?” he spoke as if accusing her of some misdemeanour “You spent some years apart”

She nodded.

“How long did it take?” he asked rather abruptly.

“To what?”

“To ease the estrangement between the two of you?”

His brooding tone made her bite her lower lip to not let any sign of amusement betray her.

“I couldn’t say the precise number of days...” she answered teasingly.

He frowned and looked at her in a way that made her swallow her mirth. He placed the poker back on its place, looking ready to leave. For once she forgot about decorum and drew closer to him, taking hold of his hand to prevent him from going away, to prove she meant no disrespect.

“...But when both parts are willing it doesn’t take much time or effort.” she anxiously continued, keeping her eyes on their hands. If she looked at him, she might lose her nerve.

She could feel his eyes on her. “ _He listens_ ”

“Your daughter loves you and that will never change. Just give her some time and allow yourself to get to know her again, because it is pointless and dangerous to hold on too tightly to our old notions of others, good or bad. It cost me...” her voice failed.

It cost her everything, because she refused to discard the illusion of marrying a fair prince. Her aptitude for idealism seemed endless back then if she ever mistook Joffrey for one. She was suddenly assaulted by an almost unbearable pity for all those frustrated dreams that used to be so dear to her. “ _I must not think of it”_

“...It almost cost me the love of my brother. We had been lost to each other and grown so far apart, I thought for some time that there was no way of vanquishing the distance...”

At first, she didn’t know what to make of that little wild thing before her, a stranger whose outward appearance looked so achingly familiar. Unreasonably, she couldn’t put up with him and despised him a little for her own failure. But soon enough she stopped searching in him for other people and simply took him as he was, with all the disturbing novelties of his character, which she gradually began to overlook. Hadn’t she changed as well?

“...But this estrangement, at some point begins to lighten...” she said, intertwining their fingers, wondering if the estrangement between herself and her husband would ever lighten. “...until it all becomes as familiar as an old pair of boots, all over again...” she said slowly, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

With some embarrassment, Sansa realized that she had been prattling in his presence again, a virtually inevitable inclination when one’s husband despises idle talk. The conversation had made them move closer than they had ever been. Close enough for her to feel his scent, wood, smoke and perspiration, not all unpleasant. His breath brushed against her temple and she was both intimidated and draw to the strength and warmth he exuded. He was absently stroking the side of her hand with his thumb, and she wished he was not wearing gloves.

Mustering all her daring, she raised her face and risked a glance at him. She supposed he would head off at any instant now, but for once he seemed in no rush to leave her. He was watching her closely instead, and being under his scrutiny had that disconcerting effect of setting her pulse racing.

Their gazes locked. His fingers closed around her hand. He leaned in a little nearer and her lips parted in a soft gasp. Not in fear, no it wasn’t fear. She found herself leaning towards him as well. She took no notice of what she was doing until he suddenly took a step back. Sansa frowned, strangely troubled by his withdrawal; she was beginning to fear that something would shatter within her chest beyond any hope of repair. He held himself stiffly, as though there was an invisible line between them that he couldn’t quite bring himself to cross.

But she could.

As if compelled by an outside force altogether, she slowly reached up, letting trembling fingers caress his face, coarse to her touch but warm. She liked the feel of his warmth. She was still unsure of what she was doing, it wasn't ladylike, but she had no wish to ruin the moment with demureness.

She let go of his hand and let her palm slid upward his arm, taking hold of his shoulder. She gingerly stood on tiptoes and planted a lengthy kiss on his stubbly cheek, being rewarded with a slow exhale of his chest, which didn’t sound discouraging. But then he flinched away and glared at her, standing very upright. Had she gripped too tight? It was then that she remembered.

“Your wound! Did I...?” she gasped, worried and embarrassed, thinking she had grabbed his still healing arm too forcefully.

“No” his voice was no more than a hoarse murmur, a reverberation that she felt roving to the centre of her chest and then downwards. He searched every inch of her face and all of a sudden she knew that she had been on his mind as well.

He reached to touch her cheek. The air around grew thicker, the sounds grew more distant. She wondered what his hands would feel like against her skin with no gloves between them. He traced his thumb under her lower lip, a soft caress that made her breath come faster. When his mouth began to lower, she felt a delicious stirring in her belly. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the sensation. Anticipation and unease tussle for her nerves and before she could tell her own emotions apart, a polite knock on the door startled them.

He took two quick annoyed breaths before answering.

“What!?” he rasped, eyes blazing irritation.

Sansa pressed her lips together to hide a sudden giddiness.

“Forgive the intrusion” said Steffon Seaworth “But Your Grace asked me to inform as soon as the council members were ready …”

Sansa could hear the embarrassment in the squire’s nervous voice.

The King gave a sidelong glance at her, jaw moving from side to side again. Sansa was about to slip the fur from her shoulders and give it back to him when he raised his hand to stop her.

“Keep it. You can have the chamber as well. The meeting might take the whole night. You should rest while you can. We leave at first light”

“You should rest too....” she said, feeling a little concerned. She had never seen him at rest.

“I can rest on the ship” he said. For a moment, he simply looked at her “Will you make sure that Shireen is comfortable?”

“I’ve been doing so since the day I met her” she tried for a confident voice.

He nodded and then he stomped out of the chamber, the shadows shifted with his every move. Only when she heard the door shut did she move. She felt hot and a little weak, as though warm vapours were coursing the length of her spine. Her lips curled into a smile as she dared to think that maybe all of her apprehensions were silly and unfounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Hello again :D. Here is another unnecessarily long chapter for your entertainment. I don't know about you, but I like fictional works the way I like my sandwiches: big (with a lot of mayonnese )  
> 2\. Sorry for the mistakes again!  
> 3\. Special thanks to Edralis, Samyo, Clio and Shieraseastar for the encouragement.


	13. The other girl

 Gray seas at her right, a rocky coastline at her left. Overhead, the frozen sky covered the whole world like a cloak. In the distance, the boundless expanse of waters was adorned here and there by chunks of floating ice that resembled glass castles. The sounds of the wind and the waves were quiet and loud, equally soothing and daunting. Despite the chill in the air, Sansa found out she quite liked to stand on the deck, as the _Valyria_ rose and fell to the lazy, undulating rhythm of the sea.

 _“With fog and cloudy skies, it’s a wonder we don’t lose our way or collide against the ice or the rocks_ ” she had told her husband earlier that day.

" _There’s no need to worry"_ he had answered sternly, " _This is a strong ship and Salladhor Saan knows every inch of these coasts. The winds are holding steadily. We’ll be reaching Seagard in a day or two at most"_.

And from there they’d ride to Riverrun. Sansa was not looking forward to that part of the journey.

They had been sailing along the coast, very slowly, never out of sight of land. For the past few days there had not been much for her to do and now she was beginning to crave an ending for such imposed indolence. What was more; the sea had the effect of making her drowsy. There was no way of keeping her eyes open if she sat long enough on the same spot with nothing to do.

At some point, she asked her husband if she could be of any assistance to him and was surprised when, after some consideration, he handed her part of his remarkably extensive correspondence. _“The pile keeps growing. You are free to read and answer everything but the ones that carry the seal of the Iron Bank or the seal of the Hand. As for the rest, inform me of what is worth knowing”_.

It seemed that he had finally decided to make an effort to trust her a little, and she was not going to disappoint him. Thus, she sat across from him and spent the following days patiently reading, answering and organizing all those letters in order of importance, acquiring a privileged view of a Kingdom recovering from war. Meanwhile, she would cast furtive glances at him, reading and revising him, over and over, as though he were a difficult missive she had to write. But when the task was done she found herself back to where she had started.

“ _Try to ignore the cold, my Queen, and spend some time outside, enjoying the sight of your kingdom from the sea”_ Salladhor Saan had suggested. The view was enchanting enough to distract her, so she decided to follow his recommendation as often as she could.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors!” someone cried, and many other voices echoed the creed.

Sansa looked down and observed as the celebrants of the Lord of Light assembled in the main deck for their prayers, as they would never fail to do at nightfall. Even during sieges or before battles, if Salladhor Saan could be believed.

“Truly the devoted group, those believers of the Red God” the Admiral said as he joined her. His tone was always of someone telling a joke, as if letting her know that she should not take him seriously. However, Sansa had to agree with that remark. She had never seen such religious zeal before.

“Lord of Light, come to us in our darkness...” Ser Devan’s rich voice echoed through the deck. In the absence of the Red Woman, he was often asked to say the prayers.

“He is a pious one, that boy" Salladhor Saan whispered "Old Davos always says that had his son not become a sworn member of the Kingsguard, he’d probably end up a priest. Let him wear a white cloak rather than a red robe. It would be the death of my good friend and the greatest triumph of the Red Woman”.

Sansa thought advisable to gather as much information as possible about the man whom her husband trusted so implicitly. She had heard much about him not only from Shireen but also from Osha and Rickon. “ _Send my regards to the Onion Knight”_ Osha had asked with a rather large smirk. Sansa knew he was a man of humble origins, a former criminal. But that had not stopped him from going out of his way to relive the people held under siege at Storm’s End from the slow agony of death by starvation.“ _And how did the King repay him? By maiming him, that’s how! If I were the Onion Knight, I’d tell that ungrateful prick to eat his own fingers next time he faces hunger”_ Rickon had told her.

“Have you known Lord Seaworth long?” she asked.

“Since the lawless days” the Admiral grinned like an ill-behaved boy “There was not a better smuggler in the whole of Flea Bottom, a true master of the fine art of hiding from the royal fleet”

“What is he like?”

“Honest to a fault” he scoffed “Loyal beyond reason”

“Are honesty and loyalty faults?” she chuckled.

“Only when they grant you some time in dungeons or when they almost cost the head on your shoulders or other useful parts of your body. But they are the highest virtues when they also earn you some fine lands and titles.”

“And the trust of the King”

From smuggler to Hand, the highest position any man could aspire to climb in the Seven Kingdoms.

“No man is more fiercely loyal to His Grace” he acknowledged as if that was the worst of Davos Seaworth’s flaws “He will die before deserting and not even then. Thrice I thought him gone for good; I even prepared myself to give my condolences to the widow. But the Gods know we must never assume we've seen the last of anyone until we are all dead and burned.”

Sansa felt a cold shiver running down her back. “ _It’s getting darker and colder_ ”, she thought, pulling her fur cloak closer about her neck.

“Are you a godly man as well, Admiral?”

“Gods, no” he barked a loud laugh, strident enough to make the devoted assembly on the lower deck cast reproving glances at him “The only thing that can make Salladhor Saan fall on his knees and beg like a repentant sinner is a beautiful woman...” he smiled and eyed her suggestively. Sansa didn’t know whether to feel affronted or laugh at him.

“...Or a chest full of gold dragons” a harsh voice behind them said.

Both turned around. As if from nowhere, the King had appeared a few paces behind them. Sansa felt a stir in her belly, the curious thrill that overwhelmed her when he was nearby. She was starting to wonder if she would ever stop feeling that way.

Salladhor Saan immediately straightened his posture and then he bowed as if he were the humblest of peasants, “My King...”

“Leave us” the King hissed, eyes fixed on the man.

The High Admiral bowed a few more times before obeying the command. The King watched his exit with an annoyed glower, until the man was out of sight.

“Has he offended you?” he asked, looking at her.

Salladhor Saan was not the only of his men who had tried to flirt with her. At least his attempts were amusing. She had grown unaccustomed to that. Back at home, men had treated her with the deference reserved to the Lady of Winterfell, who offered them food, shelter and kindness. But she suspected that her brother‘s blood-spattered reputation, as well as his pet direwolf, contributed immensely to keep them well away from her. She preferred it that way; having had her share of unwanted male attention, enough for a lifetime.

“Not at all” she answered, feeling a smile pull at her lips “The Admiral is the liveliest company”.

He breathed out a snort that let her know he very much doubted that. He came over to her side and stood, legs wide apart, as steady as a pillar, as though there was nothing but firm land under his feet. She, on the other hand, had to hold onto the rail for dear life. That was one of her few grievances of being on shipboard: her inability to walk on a straight line or to stand without having to hold onto something. She was constantly bumping on people and things.

“They are at it again” he complained, eying the people who were praying.

“Praying to keep the darkness away” she said playfully “praying for their champion”

“I have no power to stop men from acting foolish” he made a grimace and straightened, looking sideways at her “Sadly.”

“But it must be quite practical having an army that has such faith in their leader”

“This legacy of nonsense is mine” he conceded gruffly “While one lot screams for one God, the other lot screams for seven. They are all shouting at the wind but either side wants to be the one to shout the loudest”

While organizing his correspondence, she had found, amidst congratulatory missives for their marriage, some disturbing news from the capital regarding episodes of confrontations between the Faith Militant and followers of the Lord of Light. The loyalties of the city were divided between those two factions. Sansa had learned from uncle Brynden that half the country had fallen under the spell of the red priests. A certain Thoros of Myr had converted the Brotherhood without Banners and the smallfolk under their protection, whereas the Lady Melisandre had accomplished the same with the southern lords, part of the Night’s Watch and some of the freefolk. It seemed that the mysterious Lord of Light had built a solid base in Westeros. However, in between them, there was a man known as the High Sparrow, who had his own army of thirsty supporters.

“Praying offers nothing but illusory solace” the King stubbornly went on “Yet people are willing to fight, kill and die for their right to deceive themselves”.

“Some manner of solace is is preferable to no solace at all”.

“What manner of solace can be found in illusions?” he sniffed contemptuously.

“Sometimes it is all one has to keep going. The idea that someone cares, that someone is listening is quite reassuring. What’s the harm in that?”

“If there are any Gods, they are either careless or deaf and blind to our sorrows. It is idiotic to expect them to care”

“Would you rather have your men giving up on hope and succumbing to despair?”

“I'll have them do their duties. If they want to hold on to fools’ hope while they are at it, so be it.”

“That’s all faith is to you? Fools' hope?"

“Only fools and children believe in what can’t be seen or proven. The moment men find religion, they lose their common sense”

“Then I suppose I am a fool as well”

“You must know, don’t you?” the creases on his brow deepened as he turned his face to look at her, sounding as though he was personally affronted by her words “No amount of praying will make the night brighter or winter warmer. It is a bedtime story men need to tell each other when thoughts on the pointlessness of life assail them. There is no one listening, no more than there is a reason for everything that happens.”

He sounded so disgruntled that Sansa had a hard time trying to keep a straight face.

“Your Grace is very outspoken about the things you don’t believe” she laughed quietly. She couldn’t help it. His blunt, annoyed remarks would often cause that effect on her.

He didn’t seem pleased with her reaction and looked away from her, letting his gaze wander ahead. The last light of the day was waning fast into darkness. With a last shout against the night’s terrors, the Red God’s flock of worshippers began to disperse. A freezing gust of wind rushed from the sea, filling the sails, urging the _Valyria_ on a faster slide through the water. Shivers ran over Sansa’s scalp, making her hunch her shoulders and wince. She felt the King’s hand closing around her forearm to support her.

“It’s going to be a windy night” he said, looking at the sails as the crewmen began to lower them, which meant that the oars would be set to work.

“I’d love something warm to drink. Shall we get in and have supper?” she suggested, a little hopeful.

He considered her for a moment, and then nodded, offering his arm. She grinned before accepting it. It was almost imperceptible, but she could feel him tensing up at her closeness. She clung to him and together they made their way inside.

The King had taken to having his meals with her and Shireen, a daily ritual Sansa enjoyed. At night, and at her urge, they would linger a little in his cabin after supper. Sansa would usually sit on comfortable setee on a corner, bent over her needlepoint, so as to give father and daughter some privacy. However, she would listen intently, dropping encouraging remarks here and there to fill the awkward gaps of silence, smiling inwardly as they grew sparser. The Baratheons would talk about old acquaintances and books while playing some rounds of cyvasse. Shireen would tell him about her life in Winterfell, the friends she had made, her new passions. Sansa had noticed that the girl would speak with fondness of everyone, from the wildling children to Old Nan, but she’d never say a word about Rickon.

The King was not always pleased with his daughter’s remembrances and it was not unusual for him to throw an incensed, disbelieving glare at Sansa in the middle of the talk. “ _You let my daughter work in those glass gardens of yours?”_ he had accused her once _._

Sansa had replied by saying that the Princess’s willingness to work and be useful was nothing if not commendable and it had set a good example to many. “ _And did you try to set good examples yourself?”_ he asked with a sardonic gleam in his eyes. “ _Always_ ” she had answered, a little irritated and flustered. In such occasions, Shireen would come in her defence. “ _I wanted to help, Father.”_

 _Father_ , such a simple word, and yet powerful enough to make the King forget everything else and give the girl his full attention. Oftentimes, Sansa would simply fall asleep on that comfy settee and wake up later, covered with blankets and furs she didn’t remember having with her before, to find Shireen gone and the King sitting at his desk, hard at work, his face a mask of concentration as he read all those documents, petitions and reports.

Sansa smiled, tightening her hold on her husband's arm.

In the cabin, Steffon Seaworth was already waiting for them to begin serving supper. The King held a chair out for her to seat, as he’d do every night. She had always appreciated such subtle gestures of courtesy. He sat opposite her at the table and waited as the squire served them, a light meal of mutton, bread, cheese, lyseni grapes, and some mulled wine. The boy was clumsy in the task, doing everything very slowly, like one who is not used to it. He was a green boy, Sansa had learnt, who had never left his family’s keep until the day his father summoned him to the capital. Unlike his brother, Ser Devan, he didn’t really care for the Lord of Light. “ _I believe in the Seven, my Queen. They are the gods of my mother”_.

“Do you know the whereabouts of my uncle, Steffon?” Sansa asked softly, trying to distract the boy and ease his edginess.

“Ser Brynden is in his cabin, my Queen” he answered, pouring her some mulled wine “He felt unwell”

The motion of the ship made the Blackfish frantically sick. On the rare occasions in which his stomach behaved, he would join them for supper as well. But when he attended, Shireen would recoil into a timid silence, looking keenly into her own plate, as though there was something very interesting on its bottom attracting her attention.

“If it please Your Grace, he asked to have a word with you, before you retire for the evening as well”

Sansa nodded and thanked the boy, asking him to take some food to the Blackfish’s cabin: a bit of hard bread and some tea that tasted like wet wood. She knew it was all her uncle could bring himself to ingest.

The squire smiled, and promptly left to do as she asked. The King eyed his eagerness with a scowl. The boy would often turn into a nervous pool of silence under the harsh look of those eyes. But he liked his gentle Queen well enough, always keeping her well-informed about the movements of everyone.

“He forgot to serve me” the King complained with a sneer.

Sansa suppressed a laugh, feeling that furtive hammering within her chest, which would always happen whenever she realized she was alone with her husband.

“I apologize, my King. It was not my intention to distract your squire from his duties”

“I’ve never heard that boy uttering more than two sentences in succession” the king said in an accusatory tone, helping himself to some cheese and mutton. Although Sansa could find nothing to reproach in his table manners, his movements were rather brusque. He stabbed the meat as though it was an enemy

“And Shireen?” he asked, looking around. He would often inquire about his daughter as if she were still a little girl.

“She went to bed” Sansa answered, cutting a small piece of meat on her plate.

“Bed?” his forehead creased into concerned lines “Is she ill?”

Shireen was untroubled by the heaving of the ship. But perhaps longing was an illness after all, an ailment of the soul, silent and insidious, when absence and want populate every deed and every thought, numbing one’s perceptions to everything else. There had been a time when Sansa thought she herself would die of it. She could tell Shireen was trying hard to overcome it. Being on a ship again had rekindled the girl’s dormant interest in sea lore and seamanship and she would walk about the deck with the Admiral or Lord Massey, listening to their stories. She would also spend time taking care of the seasick handmaids, chatting with the White Cloaks, or tutoring Steffon Seaworth on the art of cyvasse.

“It’s just a slight indisposition, Your Grace” Sansa answered "Nothing to worry about".

“She used to like sailing. She’d ask me to hold her while she’d lean over the rail to see the _oars dancing_ ”.

As he spoke, she could swear she had seen the shadow of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, however subtle and brief. Sansa tried to picture the scene and could not hold back a grin that only widened when he looked at her as if speaking of a fond memory was an intolerable breach of propriety. She heard him clearing his throat.

"What about you, my lady?” he blurted, apparently eager to change subjects “I trust you are well”

“Quite well, Your Grace”

Even though her legs were not thoroughly accustomed to the unsteady rhythm of the sea, Sansa had been thanking whatever good fortune had spared her of seasickness. Uncle Brynden had accused her of being as smug about it as her grandsire, Hoster Tully, used to be. “ _He’d feast on lamprey pies and lemon cakes while the rest of us were nearly delirious with sickness. I think he’d take some sort of perverse pleasure in being the only one with some control. I’m beginning to suspect you are just like him”._

“As a matter of fact, I’ve made up my mind to never again travel by land. _Not ever_. It is so much more agreeable to travel by sea”

“Is it?” he studied her face, letting her see the wryness in his.

“It is infinitely better. It’s been a while since I’ve slept so well and the view from the deck is mesmerizing. It’s strangely peaceful...”

“Peaceful? I shall consider your judgment valid when you have sailed the high seas, out of sight of land . We have been lucky so far, but don’t get too comfortable."

"Salladhor Saan says there is no reason to worry" Sansa answered a little surprised, not at his words, but at the fact that, for the first time, not only had he started conversation with her, but also that he was carrying on with it.

"Well, he is clearly lying to impress you. He is a competent seaman, and therefore worried by nature. He knows the seas have a mind of their own. One moment you are sailing through calm waters, and then the deck is rising and sinking under your feet.”

“It can’t be that dangerous” she knew it could. She had simply chosen not to dwell too much on it.

“I’ve seen hulls being crushed by the waves like flies by a tight fist. If I believed in Gods, I’d say that the Ironborn have the right of it and there really is a God in the depths”.

Was that his idea of idle conversation?

“Are you trying to scare me?” she snorted nervously. If that was his intention he should switch the course of the conversation to saddles and horses.

“I’m trying to warn you. Walking about the deck, as you seem inclined to do, can be a deadly imprudence. Especially when you have not yet grown a pair of sea legs to support you”

That remark was completely unwarranted. She had certainly attuned to the pitching of the sea much better than most. Her wildling guards were reluctant to even leave their cabins.

“Fortunately, I have a very sturdy pair of legs, Your Grace. For that very reason, they resent being put to no use on either side of a horse’s back. Gods, give me storms rather than a road”.

He made a noise as he sipped his wine.

“Wait until you’re caught in the middle of a tempest-tossed sea and then you will change your mind. Ignorance is always disdainful.”

“Have you ever been caught in the middle of a tempest-tossed sea?”

“Several times”

“The experience didn’t seem to have left any lasting impression on you” she leaned back in her chair, holding her cup “Your Grace too seems to rather enjoy your time on shipboard”

Something about him had changed as soon as the ship had set sail. It was a very subtle change, but for once he seemed comfortable. When he spoke, his tone was unhurried, his face not so marred by scowls. “ _He is less wary around me too”_. In spite of its subject, that was easily the lightest conversation they ever shared. There was a hint of teasing to it, all but indiscernible.

“Things are simpler” he answered, shifting a bit in his seat.

“How so?”

“There are fewer pious idiots to command, for one” he replied crossly.

Sansa tried not to chuckle aloud, she really tried. He regarded her for a while, with an unreadable expression.

"You are aware, my Lady, that it is a capital offence to laugh at the King‘s face" he spoke with a grave tone, but she could recognize the hidden sarcasm.

“What shall be my punishment, Your Grace?” she concealed her smirk behind her cup.

He stared wordlessly at her, eyes widening slightly. It had become a secret pleasure of hers, breaching his usual armour of detachment.

“Riding from Seagard to Riverrun in the cold seems enough” he retorted, the corners of his mouth twisting into a half- sneer.

She was beginning to think that her distress on horseback somehow amused him.

Afterwards, the conversation naturally shifted to safer territory and the rest of the meal was quiet, rocked only by the swaying of the ship. In between mouthfuls, she asked questions about the dealings of the Small Council and the Iron Bank. The first instalment of the debt was due to be paid in a few moons and it was cause of great concern. But Sansa did not really want to talk about that. She had no wish of concerning herself with anything when she was enjoying herself. He finished his meal first, as usual, and began to slowly drum his fingers on the table, waiting for her to finish hers. Even though she was in no hurry to oblige him, at some point she had no excuse left to linger in his company and thought best to leave and check on uncle Brynden.

The King escorted her to the Blackfish’s door and she thanked him. Every night, she would cast a last look at him, half-fearful, half-hopeful that it would be the night he’d ask her to stay with him. But he’d never asked. " _We can wait"_ he had told her and the subject had never been mentioned again.

“Good night, Your Grace” she smiled.

He looked at her for a while, eyes lingering somewhere between her left ear and her high collar, and then he clenched his jaw, nodded and left. She watched him go until he reached the door to his cabin, at the end of the corridor. He stopped and looked back, visibly surprised to see her still on the same spot.

Heart beating faster, she curtsyed and entered her uncle's cabin without knocking.

The sight that greeted Sansa made her stop at the entrance.

She had first known Brynden Tully through the fond accounts of Mother, and for once, tales and reality were one and the same. He was a hero of several wars, a man of imposing stature and though his face was weather-beaten and there was no evidence that his hair had been as red as hers once, he was still lively and strong. So it was both humorous and distressing for her to see a great man like him reduced to such a wretched state: bent over a pail, one hand clutching it like a drunken guest at the end of a wedding feast, while the other was clasping his stomach.

"Maybe the great Blackfish is getting old” mocked Lord Massey who was sitting on his bunk with his back to the door, reading a book Sansa knew he had borrowed from Shireen. Neither men seemed to have noticed her presence.

“I am not getting old, Massey. I am old. I’ve been old for far more years than I’d ever been young and now it feels like it” uncle grumbled “Someday, if you live long enough, you might have the _privilege_ of reaching old age as well”

“You certainly sound old”

“This bloody cold makes my joints hurt like a...” uncle groused, stopping midsentence when he saw her “Your Grace”

Lord Massey immediately stood and bowed. “My Queen”.

“My uncle is not old, Lord Massey” she smiled affably, closing the door and moving to sit by the Blackfish’s side.

“ _He is my one true knight_ ”, she thought. He could scoff all he wanted but ever since they met he had become the embodiment of all the great knights that had permeated her childhood reveries and for that she was glad. Because in spite of everything that had happened, there was a silly part of her that still needed to believe in lovely, impractical concepts like heroism.

“A jest between brothers in arms, my Queen” the Lord of Harrenhall said, slightly abashed.

“I don't doub it” she arranged the furs around her uncle.

"Maybe the sea is no place for a blackfish, no matter how daring he is”

“Fish swim, they don’t sail. And this fish is a fish from the rivers and a very good swimmer, mind you” Ser Brynden dismally answered before clutching his stomach forcefully, taken by a spasm of nausea “Seven Hells! There’s nothing left in my stomach to spew”

“That is why I’ve sent you some tea. But I see you haven’t touched it yet...” she picked the cup on the nightstand.

“I can barely swallow my own spit, girl!”

“Try” she insisted, offering him the tea “It will help your stomach to settle”

He grumbled a few more times but then he gave in. She seized a rag and began to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead as he drank.

“It tastes like horse piss. How come you feel nothing?”

"Oh, but I do. The sea makes me sleepy”.

“I remember” he chuckled sadly “You slept like the dead the entire journey back to Winterfell”.

She had succumbed to the weight of an all-consuming exhaustion. The accumulated strain of living on a permanent state of vigilance had finally had its toll on her. But it was better not to talk about it in front of the attentive ears of Lord Massey.

“Why don’t you go where your presence is wanted, Massey?” the Blackfish complained “I wish to talk with my niece of family matters which are of no concern to you”.

“I’m sure you will find a much more agreeable environment in the Admiral’s cabin, Lord Massey" Sansa said gently "I believe they will start serving supper shortly”.

“Yes, my Queen” he smiled, the grin that made Sansa’s handmaids break into fits of giggles “Is the Princess still awake? I wish to return this book to her. She was right. It is a fascinating account of the Conquest of Dorne”

Sansa lamented the Princess’ indisposition and said he could leave the book with her if he wished. He courteously declined it; saying that it was his responsibility to see the tome safely back into its owner’s hands. Then, he bid them good night and left.

“Beware of that one” uncle Brynden said with some distaste as soon as the door closed.

“Why? Do you have any reason to doubt his loyalty?” she arranged the pillows on the bunk and helped him to lay down in an upright position.

“No. He is a King’s man through and through. He is well liked at the capital and he certainly has earned every single one of his honours. But still, he is ambitious”

“Ambition is not necessarily an undesirable quality”

“ _Without a bit of ambition, the Andals would never have crossed the Narrow Sea_ ” a hateful voice intruded into her thoughts, a mocking voice. A voice that was often right.

“Rumour has it that he has every intention of marrying into royalty”

Sansa froze in surprise. Shireen and Lord Massey? All of a sudden the young man’s solicitousness towards the Princess, his interest in her pursuits, his insistence on dancing with her at any given chance, of riding close to her, his flattering remarks to which the girl listened to with gracious indifference, all of that appeared in front of Sansa and acquired a new dimension.

All of a sudden, she felt an apprehension she could not explain. Uncle was watching her with a strange, grave stillness. She came to fear that look on his face, for it implied that he once again wanted to tell her something and did not know where to start. It was a look that preannounced change, the looming unknown at her doorsteps.

“The last time I’ve seen a young man so ambitious....” he said slowly, gauging her reaction to his every word.

Icy shivers ran down her spine. She understood everything at once.

“Let’s not waste a single moment of our time speaking of _him_...”

“We must” he said with a regretful expression "Have you forgotten? We’ve never finished that conversation”.

She thought they had.

She didn’t want to think of _him_. She wanted to expunge him completely, to pretend he had never existed. Most importantly, she liked to pretend she had never had any association with him.

“I’ve never liked him. Have I told you that?" uncled sighed "It was an irrational dislike. He was just a child when he came to Riverrun, small and scrawny like a hatchling that fell out of the nest. All the lads would mock him. _Littlefinger_! _Littlefinger_!”

That name. She hadn’t heard it in a long time. What an unpleasant sound it made.

“A cruel name for a proud boy. How he hated them for it. The girls, as expected, took him under their care. He’d help Cat with Edmure. And Lysa, sweet, fragile Lysa...”

Maybe the Blackfish was getting old and sentimental after all.

“Fragile?”

“She was not like Cat”

“She most definitely wasn’t!”

“Cat lived with her two feet firmly placed on the ground; she saw the world for what it was. Lysa lived with her head in the clouds, in a world of her making. A dreamer with her head filled with songs and stories, unfit for the harshness of reality”

Sansa was about to voice her utter indignation when she realized that he was speaking of a person she had never met, Lysa Tully, not the unstable Lady Arryn. He’d never met the other Sansa Stark either, the girl who had never known fear or shame, who had loved songs of beauty and bravery as much as Lysa Tully probably had. Did everyone carry different people within them, the remnants of different existences?

“ _People like Sansa Stark are a danger to themselves and others, sweet Alayne. Dreamers”_ the repellent voice she would always try to silence began to whisper on the back of her mind again “ _I used to be one myself. What a selfish lot we are. What we have is never good enough. We will always crave more, more than we are due. And when we get what we want, we are never quite satisfied. For reality is nowhere near as pleasing as our expectations. People very seldom meet our expectations. So we ruin them, often without meaning to, those who are foolish enough to love us”_

“It seemed that he had cast some manner of spell upon her” uncle continued, but his voice was sounding strangely distant “The poor girl was besotted with him. I learned much later that he’d encourage her affection; he’d use her to punish those who disdained him. It was through her that he became Master of Coin. Now I know that he used her all her life and he never cared for her”

Sansa couldn’t look at him as he spoke no more than she could ask him to stop talking. She found herself reduced to the faculty of listening.

“Cat would always say: _he is just a boy, he looks up to you, uncle_. Or so he wanted her to believe. He’d probably do or say anything to worm his way into her good graces. She asked me to watch out for him and I was never able to refuse her whatever thing. I tried to teach him how to spar but it was no use. He wasn’t made for sword and shield. If only Brandon Stark had rid us of him... as I should have killed him for using my nieces’ children to carry out his sordid schemes...”

The key to the North and the key to the Vale both within his grasp. He already was Lord of Harrenhall, Lord Protector of the Vale, his fortune untouched by the hardships of the war. Alayne had often wondered if one by one the Seven Kingdoms would be his.

“...Making you pretend to be his bastard...how dared him...” uncle went livid, as if the mere thought made him ill all over again “...all those repulsive lies he threatened to tell the King about you...”

His words wound her as surely as the thrust of a dagger.

“Lies?” she asked hesitantly, under her breath. The world around her seemed to grow dim.

“ _A lady’s reputation is all she has. Lose that and you have nothing”_ all of a sudden the words spoken by Septa Mordane, so many years ago, echoed inside her skull. The woman had said them with such an air of fatality and knowledge that it made Sansa wonder now what kind of secrets did she hide underneath those septa’s garments.

“It doesn’t matter, dearest” the Blackfish kindly said, holding her hands “None of it matters. You were a victim, like Lysa...”

Victim? Sometimes she would be his accomplice. She was willing to do and suffer almost anything to get Winterfell back. Occasionally, she would be the one influencing his decisions, playing on his attraction to her. He made it so easy for her, or maybe he was just pretending to himself that he believed her. She had but to whisper his name and smile sweetly, kiss him once or twice, let him hold her, touch her. Her willingness would excite him, her coldness would hurt him. “ _A snow maiden_ ”, he’d call her at times “ _Fair and cold”_. That was how she made him stop poisoning Robert’s food and dissuaded him of marrying her to Harry Hardyng. “ _Robert will not stand on the way. It takes so little to please him. He doesn’t question much”_.

Thus she went on for a long time, feeding him lies and feasting on the ones he told her. Lies that poisoned her heart like an infested wound. “ _Everybody lies, sweetling. It’s as necessary as breathing. Imagine a world where unreserved honesty reigned. How impractical, how dull”_.

But the alternative was exhausting. Entire worlds ought to be conjured in the wake of a lie. The teller is trapped with it like a fly caught on a never-ending web. Reality bends to it, reshapes its foundations to accommodate it. She had given in to it, so much so that she became a stranger to herself. “ _Alayne Stone, lies made flesh and blood”_. Sansa was haunted by that ghost. Oftentimes she would catch herself making use of the other girl’s mannerisms, speaking with her voice. It had been difficult at first, to purge that intruder away. But Sansa had had some help to get rid of her. _“Why do you insist on calling her Alayne? It’s not her name, you idiot_ ” Rickon would often tell Robert at the beginning of their coexistence. Robert had mourned Alayne as though she had actually existed. Sansa pitied her.

She closed her eyes; they were useless to her at the moment anyway. “ _Why is he telling me this? I’ll hear no more about it”_.

“...And now you are married and under the protection of the King” he spoke as if her marriage was a burden off his shoulders “He can vouch for you. No man would dare to question his honour or his word”

But they would certainly question hers, as if a woman’s word had no merit of its own. Sansa had heard some imprecise accounts about what had happened to Cersei Lannister and Margaery Tyrell, arrested and exposed for inappropriate behaviour. If Littlefinger spoke against her, all the things she had accomplished over the years would amount to nothing. But he couldn’t speak, for he was long gone. She thought him gone. He was supposed to be gone.

“He’s in Riverrun” Brynden Tully said solemly.

She felt a strain in her throat, a weight on her chest as if there was something crushing her ribs together.

“Alive?” she asked, her voice sounding oddly polite, eyes fixed at some point behind Ser Brynden.

“Awaiting the King’s justice...and your husband is particularly meticulous in that regard. All of the offenders are heard, formally accused and given a fair trial.”

“Then that man is as good as dead....”

“The King must never be aware of all the crimes Littlefinger has committed...”

She was only half-listening now. She understood the overall meaning of his words but it felt as though uncle Brynden was standing at the beach while she was rolling a boat into the open sea, drifting farther and farther from the shore.

“He forced you to lie under oath to all the Lords of the Vale and now we can’t impute him with Lysa’s murder without compromising you as well”

To think that it all started because she was building a snow castle. Because she longed for home, family and her old self so much it virtually hurt. Littlefinger and Alayne had left that disgusting singer take the blame for them.

“And I beg you to think of Robert and never mention Lysa’s part in Jon Arryn’s death”

What was one more lie, after all?

“Of course, uncle” her voice was a hollow echo “Let the Lannisters take the blame”

He held her gaze, as if struggling to find a proper answer.

“Can’t you see? He can drag Robert under with him. There are too many eyes coveting the Vale. He has but to sow the seed of suspicion... He said he had evidences, letters, and tokens of Lysa, from before, during and after her marriage to Jon Arryn. Everything stored by his associates...”

Oh, there were many of them, a veritable network of apparently harmless people, on both sides of the Narrow Sea, from smallfolk to rich merchants and lesser nobles. Littlefinger made them all feel important, players and not mere pieces on the board. He had the gift of compelling flattery, of finding weaknesses and hidden desires and exploiting them to their limits.

“...He threatened to expose Lysa if I ever exposed him...he threatened to expose you...”

Could he still cause so much harm? Did he still have such power over their lives? “ _Knowledge is also a commodity. You must store it until you can profit from it”_. He was always willing to share his knowledge with her, as if he needed an audience to praise his cleverness. Sansa felt a primal anger rising inside her.

“And when did you plan to tell me the truth? Once we've reached Riverrun?” she glared at her uncle, feeling the rancid taste of hypocrisy in her tongue. She fought the unladylike urge to spit on the floor like a seaman. Who was she to demand truths from anyone?

“Please, forgive my hesitancy to speak of certain things” uncle looked ashamed “The Gods know I’ve tried to tell you. But how could I? How could I bring myself to crush your peace? Not when you seemed so at ease, without that lifeless look in your eyes. I dared not. Since we’ve met, I’ve tried to protect you ....”

“By hiding the truth from me?” she let go of him and stood, giving her back to him “Is there anything else you’d care to tell me?”

“Yes”

She turned and glared at him, her breath coming faster.

“There are Freys in Riverrun as well”

There was an impressive silence as she tried to digest the implications of everything he had told her in that past hour. She took a good look at her uncle, one of the noblest men she had ever known, and felt sick.

“Do me a favour and stop trying to protect me” she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice acquiring a higher pitch with every word she said “The next time you have something to tell me, look me in the eye and spare nothing for my feelings: just tell me!”

She stormed out of the cabin, shutting the door with a loud slam. She rested her forehead on it, closing her eyes and clenching her fists tightly. Her mind was falling prey of an overpowering feeling of entrapment. Her heart, oppressed by an invisible weight, was racing wildly in her chest, her breathing was becoming scarcer. When a hesitant touch fell on her arm, she moved away as if stung by a bee.

"Your Grace?” a worried Steffon Seaworth said "Are you..."

"I'm perfectly well” she snapped, her voice was commanding yet broken “You may return to your duties, boy”

She wanted a place where she could be alone, a cabin of her own with a door she could bar. She wasn’t ready to face anyone yet. But the _Valyria_ offered no refuge other than the deck. Walking with a faltering step, like one who walks in a nightmare, she went outside, ignoring the fretful objections of the young squire.

The world outside was perilously cold and apparently empty of people. An inclement wind was wailing agony, blowing in erratic bursts. It stung her eyes and burned her nostrils as if made of fire. She gazed at the sea, which was one with darkness, forming a dense mass that seemed to have engulfed everything around and now was after the vessel. For a horrifying moment she could not tell if the _Valyria_ was going forward, moving backwards or turning on an axis. Knots of foreboding began to tie themselves tighter and tighter in her guts. A sense of looming catastrophe, stronger than any fright she’d felt in all those years of winter, was building in her core. She stared into that moving darkness and felt something staring back at her, reaching toward her. How could a pathetic thing like a wooden vessel stand against such power? They couldn’t. They were helpless. “ _This is a strong ship”_ her husband had assured her but it was just another lie. “ _He is not my husband either, not really”_

The greatest lie, however, was the one she had been telling herself throughout the years, over and over: that she was innocent. Sometimes she’d succeed in forgetting the truth for months on end. But every so often, it was impossible to find shelter against that dense cloud of half-formed memories, and the truth would pour inside her mind ceaselessly. There was blood in her hands and betrayal weighing in her conscience. She remembered that day as clearly as if it had happened the day before. Cersei Lannister, Maester Pycelle and Varys, those who had witnessed her treason, all of them were gone. But Littlefinger remained; ever the last one standing.

Oddly enough it had been him who had tried to console her, years later. “ _It was not your fault. It was your father’s. The great Eddard Stark was born to be a martyr of his own honour; he would not rest until he had found a sword to fall on. The Lannisters had but to hone the blade. Treasure the memory of him if you must. But for your own sake, learn from him and his mistakes and do the opposite”_

Rickon would never forgive her if he found out. The mere thought paralyzed her. Her brother was so honest and loyal, untainted by notions like desertion and deceit, every inch the Stark she pretended to be. He treated her as his equal; they had ruled together, building something strong and good. Nothing would daunt her, so long as she could be sure of his love. It was a steady, a bright point in the middle of a torrent of uncertainties. She would not stand to lose that. Uncle would despise her. Her husband too didn’t strike her as one to forgive human errors. “ _He cut off the fingers of the man who saved his life. What would he do with me?”_

It was too much, more than she could bear. She had no idea how long she had been standing there when a sudden lurch of the ship made her lose her balance and fall to the ground. Spray dashed up and poured over the deck, so strong she thought she’d drown in it. She could taste the salty water on her mouth, her hair and clothes immediately went damp. She coughed and crawled until she reached the railing. Hanging on to it with all the strength of her hands, she scrambled to her feet. Her legs shook under her. Her breast heaved, she couldn’t catch her breath.

Then strong arms were holding her.

“Are you mad, woman!?” a familiar voice thundered, louder than the sea.

She tried to break free from that hold, but he was much stronger and carried her inside without difficulty. On the way, they passed by a shocked Steffon Seaworth. Sansa glared at him even as she was dragged inside a cabin and the door was closed.

“Let go of me!” she pulled at his hold. Although it was the same as struggling against a wall, she hit him in the chest with clenched fists, trying to get away. But even the strongest walls had breaches, so she hit where it would hurt: his healing arm. He hissed in pain, and let her go. He threw her a frightening glare, and for a wild moment she believed he’d strike her.

She tried to walk past him and leave, but he caught her by her forearms.

“Sit down” he commanded, forcing her to sit on the bunk.

“I’m going to my cabin!” her teeth chattered from the cold.

“I’ll not have you disturbing my daughter’s sleep” the voice was hard, even if the grasp on her forearms was not “You are shaking from head to toe, woman. Be still!”

He yanked at her soggy cloak, casting it aside. She tried to shove him away when he began to remove her outer gown, which was damp with salty water. Underneath it, she wore another gown, a kirtle and two thick chemises, but she felt exposed all the same. Would he want to claim his rights as her husband at such a time? The thought repulsed her. But then he wrapped her shivering form in the huge, warm fur that was spread on the bunk.

He was furious, howling words of chastisement that she could vaguely distinguish. He made her lay down and began to remove her boots. She was too startled to react when he began to vigorously rub her legs and then her arms through the fur.

“You could have been swept overboard!” he angrily went on “Are you hurt!?"

His voice made her wandering senses slowly sharpen into focus. She clung to that sound like a helpless castaway to driftwood.

“Are you going to say something or are you to stay there staring at me all night long?"

“Why is he alive?” sound by sound her mouth expressed her confusion.

He seemed to have understood everything and went still, a veritable statue, giving her a hard, knowing look, as though he had been expecting her to ask that question all along.

“I needed him alive” he said with open disgust, his eyes were icy.

“What for?” she felt her anger rising again.

“He knew plenty” he began to rub her hands.

“That is what he wants others to believe”

“He also spent years as Master of Coin, building his fortune at the expense of the crown. Increasing the Kingdom’s debts to unprecedented levels and taking his share of the profits whenever he pleased. I tried to warn Robert, but as long as there was wine flowing in his goblet and whores in his bed, he’d not care to know what was happening around him nor would he mind where the gold to sustain his vices would come from. Jon Arryn was a clever man but he’d become a babbling fool when it came to satisfying the caprices of that wife of his. They all ignored the problem.”

“You wanted _his_ gold!?”

“ _My_ gold” he hissed slowly “It was stolen from House Baratheon, it belongs to me by rights. Part of it was hidden in the Iron Bank.”

Yes, a large sum was kept in the Iron Bank, but having had free access to Littlefinger’s desk, she knew that his gold was scattered all over the Seven Kingdoms. Even in unsuspecting places like Gulltown or that sorry excuse for a keep he owned in the Fingers. The King had but to ask her. No, she should deny having any knowledge of such things, as well as she should deny having stolen a bit for herself, along with some jewellery, when she left the Valle. No, it was not stealing, she decided. Littlefinger owed her, that and much more. She had put that gold to good use in Winterfell.

“And?”

“And it has been enough to keep the Golden Company fighting on the right side of the war for the past two years”

“Enough to make the rightful King forget the law and spare the life of a traitor?” she asked with a hint of insolence she couldn’t suppress, glaring up into eyes as angry as her own.

“Enough to grant a thief the privilege of keeping one of his hands” his voice was rife with rage that carried nothing of the mild tone he had addressed her earlier that night. The comfortable supper they had shared felt illusive “He only needed one to sign the papers to the Iron Bank?"

Her astonishment should be showing on her face.

"That’s the punishment for stealing. The punishment for not cooperating with the crown is torture and confinement. I will not grace him with a quick death until every single coin stolen from the treasury is back where it belongs. I never forget a debt, my Lady, mine or others”

“Then you should have burned him when you had the chance. Isn’t this the way you deal with traitors?”

“Yes, treason is rewarded with burning. It’s the law” he replied, eyelids narrowing “Have you ever seen someone burn?”

She didn’t answer. She just held his stare.

“It’s an unsightly way to die. Slow, loud and ghastly and there is nothing left when it’s over” there was no anger in his voice anymore, only a wry disgust.

That was what she wanted. Nothing left of him, the truth of her shame reduced to ashes never to have a physical form, never to speak.

“You did wrong by letting him live” she briefly wondered what the punishment for impertinence was “He is a dangerous man, a treacherous animal”

“I was forced to stomach the presence of that thief in the Small Council for years” the King snorted, full of contempt “I know exactly the kind of man he is.”

That was everyone’s great mistake, taking Littlefinger lightly. She had seen it, something feral lurking behind his calculating smirk. It made her wonder how others could not see it too.

“No, you don’t. He’d tear this Kingdom down if he could build a castle for himself from the wreckage. It doesn’t matter what he say or do, you must never believe him, even if it smells and tastes like the most limpid truth…”

“He said he’d protected you, saved you from the Lannisters, and treated you as his own daughter. It’s the only argument he can use in his own defence” his tone was cold, with an edge of suspicion. She could interpret the unspoken question behind it: " _Why does he distress you so?_ ”

“He betrayed my father” she said in a weary, trembling voice “ _I betrayed my father_ ”

There. She finally let the truth take shape in her mind, for she would never say it aloud. It was not to share or to speak about. It was her secret and her burden and her regrets belonged solely to herself. Omission was not lying, it was self-preservation. She could tell the difference now. “ _It isn’t real unless we speak of it. It might have never happened if not a word about is said”_ , Littlefinger would preach but he was wrong. The unsaid didn’t simply fade away, but it grew roots, burgeoning inwards, ever deeper. It felt as real to her as the cold that was making her shiver. “ _I betrayed my father and Littlefinger knows it_ ”.

The King was scrutinizing her face for something and she couldn’t stand that stare. She tried to stand and leave but a sudden lurch of the ship made her lose her balance. He held her. A long, pulsating silence followed. She trembled like the string of a bow that is struck. Her heart was beating so hard and fast that he must think her childish and weakly. She gave up attempting to fight for some composure or moving away from him. Instead, she rested her forehead on his chest, grabbing his doublet. “ _He will not hurt me”_ somehow, she was certain of that.

“My father was honourable, the only one trying to do what was right. He was betrayed, dishonoured and killed. That man held a dagger to my father’s throat and let the Gold cloaks take him”

His hold was warm, stronger and more soothing than anything he might have said. It steadied her; she needed to be there, taking comfort in someone else’s strength while she fought to regain hers.

“Set your mind at ease, my Lady. That man will be punished accordingly. It is the only possible outcome for him”.

She nodded.

They might have stayed there for hours or no more than a few instants. She couldn’t tell. But he didn’t let her go until, breath by breath, she managed to steady the heaving of her chest. After a while, he let his hands slid down her arms until they cupped her elbows. She couldn’t look at him while he assessed her condition.

“Look at me” he commanded.

It took her some effort but she obeyed.

“You ought to be careful. What a dangerous folly to expose yourself to the night air” he glowered “Stay here and get warm...”

“You were right...” she murmured. He was right about everything. Nothing was everlasting; it was unwise to get too comfortable when everything could crumble down so easily. She knew those truths but it was easy to forget them when sailing through known, calm waters “...the seas disdain us”

“It’s just a bit of wind. Try to sleep” he made her lay down again, and then he walked to the door.

He would leave her? She had wanted to be alone, hadn’t she?

“My King?” she muttered.

He stopped at the entrance, turning his face to meet her gaze, one hand holding the doorknob.

She did not know what to say to him. Should she apologize? Thank him? Ask him to stay?

“Sleep” he spoke for her “There’s nothing to fear tonight” and then he was gone.

Feeling too exhausted to move, she curled up on the bunk and closed her eyes, lying still. His words made her realize that it was not fear that she felt, but rather a gloomy astonishment, a perplexed helplessness. Only then did she realize she was in tears and that she had no strength left to struggle against them. Very seldom did she allow herself to burst into fits of crying, but for just a few moments she decided to surrender to it and let her shame have full possession of her, bury its fangs on her heart and tear her asunder.

Her shame was alive. Maimed, confined to the dungeons of Riverrun, the man who wanted undeserved greatness. It should have pleased her, but it didn’t. She felt drained of any emotion for him. She merely wanted the reassurance of never having to see him again.

Why such fierce reaction? He was but an annoying thorn in her foot, a matter of no importance, already dirt and ashes in her mind. The only damage dirt and ashes could cause was to soil her shoes and that could be easily washed away. What could he really do against her? It would be her word against his and he had taught her well. She had prevailed over him. She was no child, no bastard at his mercy. She got Winterfell and a family back and no complicated scheme of his had had anything to do with it. She was Sansa of House Stark, the Queen. She owed him nothing, no more than anyone had any right to judge her. No brother, uncle or husband. They had not been there. They’d had their swords and armies to defend them. She’d had her lies.

She never felt like a bad woman, though. She knew that she had never meant to hurt anyone. And she’d worked hard to re-establish herself and her brother, to rebuild their sense of worth. There was something bright, something clean about working and achieving established aims, restoring things to the place where they belonged, a sense of power and completion that made life as she wanted to be possible, and helped her to find her truths.

And the truth was that she had always been driven by an irresistible impulse to act, a stubborn determination to live on and a selfish inclination to believe that her own happiness was the only possible end, her right. She’d always try to find her share of it in whatever she did. She knew that, come the morning, she’d be back to herself. She’d leave that bunk, push through the day, do her duties and try to find some good along the way. What could anyone do, but strive to do better? Alayne Stone conformed to sorrow, but an existence stripped of any form of happiness was unconceivable to Sansa Stark. Those fits of anguish were mere chance events along the way and by no means in accordance with life as she saw it. She could prick herself with old thorns now and then, but then she’d resist, carry on and improve. She refused to allow fears and regrets rule her present actions. They didn’t have to matter. She'd had enough of them.

Gods, she reviled those moments of awareness, when her convictions faltered and all her illusions of herself shattered, forcing her to rebuild them anew, piece by piece. So she did what she would always do in such moments. She collected her burdens andburied them back in that murky corner of her heart where no one was permitted entrance, replacing them with a vision of newfound expectations. She didn’t need the reassurance of the Red Woman’s predictions of a blessed future anymore. Her life was her own and Sansa was going to make sure that it would be the best it possibly could. Once again, she won the battle and all of her quarrelling thoughts were silenced into agreement. Her precious lucidity was restored and Sansa embraced it with abandon, making peace with herself. She briefly considered going back to the cabin she shared with Shireen, but then she realized she was quite comfortable where she was. The dark night was no longer vast and menacing but small and intimate; the cabin became the refuge she needed, the furs were a warm embrace. She remained there, without tears or bitter thoughts, until the sea had its way once again and lulled her to sleep.

She woke up, hours later, feeling a strange, pleasant lightness in her head, thepressure on her chest gone _._ The bluish darkness of winter predawn filtered in through the narrow glass windows. She enjoyed those fleeting moments before daylight settled in, when the day is still fresh and spread-out before her. She tried to stretch her arms, but then she realized she was tucked under several thick layers of fur, woollen quilts and cushions. The skin of her neck and back felt a bit clammy, her lips and throat were dry with thirst. Pushing herself upright, she kicked the coverings aside and sat, placing her still stock-clad feet on the Lyseni carpet on the floor. She loosened the high collar of her gown and stroked the perspiring skin of her neck, letting the morning air cool her a little.

Then her eyes fell on him, and she felt a hollow in her stomach. He was working at his desk, she could see the back of his head. Did he ever sleep?

Her hands immediately reached for her hair, fingers meeting an untidy braid. She froze, appalled by her state of dishevelment. She began to undo the plait, combing her fingers through the long strands.

“Good morning, Your Grace” she said nervously, trying to assemble the remnants of her pride.

He didn’t answer. She supposed she had no right to an answer. She flustered at the thought of the inexcusable discomposure she had flaunted the night before. He must be thinking he was forced into a marriage with a madwoman. He probably despised those who couldn’t control themselves as much as he scorned those who sought consolation in religion. He would not even acknowledge her presence anymore.

She should just leave.

But not before making herself presentable. She could hear the sound of steps and voices outside. Daily life on shipboard was restless and started with the first signs of light. There ought to be people up and down the corridors by now.

“I’ll leave in a moment” she managed to say, putting on her boots, which someone had left by the bed.

She stood and walked to the washbasin sat on the table near the bunk. The water was warm, which meant that Steffon Seaworth had been in the cabin not long ago, while she was asleep. She remembered being rude to him. She ought to apologize to the poor boy. He had left everything assembled for the King’s morning routine: soap, a sharp razor blade, some cloths and mouthwash.

Not stopping to consider whether or not the King would mind if she used all the hot water, Sansa cleaned her teeth and washed her face, letting handfuls of warm water slide down her cheeks. Finally, she seized a cloth, drying her cheeks with it.

As she stood there, she was suddenly startled by a strange sound. She moved closer to the King’s chair to investigate the source of it and smiled in surprise.

He was sitting straight, but obviously asleep, breathing in slow and heavy breaths, frowning even in his that briefly unconscious state. She looked at his table, a mess of scrolls and parchments, evidence that he had been, once again, hard at work. She could not understand how he managed to find his way through such chaos. Her desk had always been neatly organized. She felt a familiar itch in her hands, the need to sort out everything. She had always enjoyed, organizing the world around her own way; she had always felt she could do it much better than anyone else.

He would neither like it nor thank her for it.

Instead, she reached out for a flagon and a cup left at the table, pouring herself some lemon water. The cool, refreshing beverage was very agreeable; small wonder her husband liked it so much. She leaned against the edge of the table _,_ facing him _._ In the candlelight, she immersed herself in a drowsy study of the man who was her husband. It was a bit of a violation, spying on someone in that vulnerable state, when all defences are lowered. But then again, it was only fair; he had seen the weak side of her as well.

He looked like a weary wolf. Dark and gray hair receding at the temples, a few lines at the corners of his eyes, not a handsome man, she thought, but something far better: imposing and strong, solid and warm, strangely forbidding and yet thoughtful. She liked that. She’d never be content with a weak man at her side, someone she couldn’t bring herself to esteem. His face was darkened by morning stubble. He always had the shadow of a beard, even though he shaved regularly. On the road, he had not bothered with it and on the third day he already had a full beard. She suspected he could grow a bushy one, like King Robert. Thank the Gods that he was nothing like that abject drunk whose carelessness resulted in the sacrifice of Lady.

Carelessness and treachery were not part of her husband’s nature. It made her believe that she could trust him. He certainly had given her enough proofs to believe otherwise. He would listen to her and never impose his presence, always treating her with a chivalrous sternness of sorts. Maybe, it was precisely all that reticence that caused her initial fear of him to recede until it became no more than a strange anxiety, an erratic melody that both repelled and enthralled her. She wanted to put an end to it. Maybe then she could behave as her natural self again. She thought of their wedding day, of the touch of his lips against hers, and she felt a warm trembling rising inside her.

Tired eyes stared at her. There was an austere beauty to them, a blue flicker that quite attracted her. She couldn’t look elsewhere.

"What is it now?" he demanded to know, his voice sounding a little hoarse.

“I didn’t mean to wake you”

She felt a bit self-conscious about being caught watching him in his sleep, having no reasonable excuse prepared. But, she didn't want to play the shrinking maiden around him anymore; it was not the way wives should act around their husbands. It was not like the Queen should act.

“I wasn’t asleep; only giving some rest to my eyesight”

“Of course, my King” she bit her lower lip not to chuckle. Then she remembered the night before and felt a bit disgusted with herself. She had hurt him on purpose “How is your arm?”

“It will heal eventually”

“Are you in pain?”

“I feel fine”

She offered him the cup in her hand, some manner of silent apology. He threw a wary look at it, as if she was offering him poison instead of his favourite drink.

“You must be thirsty” she insisted.

Why such distrust? She rolled her eyes and drank a mouthful. She pressed her lips together and licked them, offering him the cup again. She couldn’t help a pleased smile when he finally accepted it, raising it to his mouth. She watched the movements of his throat as he emptied the cup in three loud, long gulps, producing tight, liquid sounds as if there was something blocking his throat.

“You’ve lied to me” she stated, very calmly.

He glared at her, the look of outrage on the face of an angry innocent who is accused of a wrong.

“You said you’d rest on the ship” she took the cup back and placed it on the table.

“I am resting”

There was a tone of annoyance to his voice, but his keen stare and the irregular twitching of his nose were giveaways of his agitation, signs that gave her some confidence.

“All I see is the King of the Seven Kingdoms sleeping on a hard chair”

“I’ve slept in worse places” he slowly began to grit his teeth.

The sound was exasperating. She leaned forward and let her hands reach for his face. It was as though her touch had paralyzed him. His eyes were staring, his mouth pursed.

“You don’t have to”

She hoped he’d understand what she was offering. Acting on an impulse that was at once deliberate and unpremeditated, she leaned forward; brushing his lips with hers. It was a peace offering, a thankful kiss, and also a wordless compromise. He made a low sound and held his breath, his jaw tightened under her fingers. His lips were firm and unyielding.

The taste of humiliation was always a sour one, regardless of circumstances. Letting her arms fall to her side, she looked down and willed her feet to move away from him.

She had not managed two steps when he grabbed her wrist and then, before she knew it, before she even had time to gasp, he pulled her to him with one quick movement, hauling her into his lap.

He hesitated for an instant, and then shoved his fingers into her hair, pulling her to him, crushing his mouth against hers. For a few moments she remained paralyzed with shock but his lips were insistent, demanding an answer from hers. Inhibitions overridden by instinct, she grabbed his shoulder and slid an arm around his neck, returning his attentions with a sweet urgency unknown to her. Their lips moved together in a fast, frantic rhythm. His morning stubble bristled against her skin. A throaty moan made her lips open up for him. She felt the brush of his tongue, the fresh taste of lemons invading her mouth. She moved her head slightly to the side, inviting him further in. He obliged her, groaning, kissing her harder and harder, in a nearly desperate rush, as though he expected her to come to her senses and flee from him at any moment. But any desire to reject him was very far from her mind. She let him devour her, confessing a hidden want she had not dare to fully acknowledge before.

He was the one who broke the kiss, clasping her face with one hand. They looked at each other, panting. Behind his heavy-lidded gaze she could see the reflection of the candles. He ran his thumb across her chin, watching her with a probing, famished look, lips slightly parted. The sight of him like that sent an overflow of heat down her back.

“What game is this you are playing?” he said, a breathless, whispered accusation. His palm slid to her throat, his fingertips caressed her skin through the gap of her open collar.

She trembled at that caress, feeling only a bit startled by his question.

“None” she shifted, sitting more upright, pressing soft, feather-light kisses to his lips, “You are my husband” she purred.

Lost in a sort of trancelike state, she pressed closer, sliding her hand up his chest until it reached his face. Brushing her thumb along the edge of his jaw, she sought his lips again, prying them apart with hers, searching, savouring, learning. He met her in a languid, deep kiss. Her tongue slid over and around his. The hot, wet, swirling sensation made her melt. She could hear herself whimpering; hear the sultry noises they were making. Her nails gently raked his scalp. He wound one hand into her hair as the other stroked downwards, starting on her collarbone, skimming between her breasts, and then burning a path along the length of her side. It finally came to a halt at the small of her back, daring to go no further. He spread his fingers open, only to let them curl tightly  into the fabric of her gown. He grunted into her mouth.

She felt a scorching excitement, real and hers. She couldn't decide which way she liked better, fast and a bit forceful or that slow, sweet persuasion. Even though she had never permitted herself to enjoy such things before, there was no need to feel culpable of doing that with him, her husband. It was right. It struck her right in the chest, firmly and deeply. It felt _good,_ so _good_. She was free to feel that way. And her skin was too warm to be troubled by modesty or guilt. Why wait? It would avail them nothing. She didn’t want to wait anymore. She hated waiting, speculating, being left in the dark.

Panting, dizzy, she feebly averted her face a little, to take a breath. He left her mouth, rubbing his nose over her cheek. His breathing shivered and gusted from his nostrils, heating her face. He nuzzled her ear and then trailed kisses down the exposed curve of her neck. The coarseness of his stubble scratched, itched and pleasured her skin,making it break out in gooseflesh. Her eyelids grew heavy and useless. Her breasts felt heavy, nipples hardening tight underneath her garments. She hunched her shoulders and captured her lower lip between her teeth, trying to suppress sounds that were both low giggles and husky moans. Her toes curled in the confines of her boots. Liquid heat flooded her, so overwhelming and new. A pleasant pulse began to throb deep between her legs. She squeezed her tights together, but she could not prevent the small, rocking motion of her hips. She felt his body quaking, then he firmly clasped her hips with both hands, pulling her tighter against him, stilling her movements. Wedging his face between her jaw and shoulder, he let out a breathless groan which reverberated through her.

He was all tense and jerky, like one who is trying to contain a strong impulse, hisbreathing was elaborate and warm against her neck. It was almost as if he didn’t want to give in to the sensations assaulting them both. Her fingertips touched his nape under his hairline, gliding gently, a soft caress. Her idle hand moved from his shoulder to his chest and it finally rested on his jaw again. She moved her head so that they could look each other in the eye. Then, with startling speed, he raised her up, turned around to place her on the chair and jerked himself away from her.

He griped the edge of the table, as if he needed to stop his own hands. She heard him inhaling and exhaling sharply. He snapped his head around to look at her, as beyond speech as her; eyes blazing under a deep, surprised frown. It was the first time she had ever seen the scornful, plainspoken man with that bewildered look on his face and a ridiculous sense of attainment washed over her. Not that she was fairing any better, but somehow the knowledge that she had reduced him to that state made her feel a queasy combination of shock and thrilling satisfaction. He opened his mouth as if he meant to speak, then he clenched his jaw and grimaced, swallowing hard.

“You should make yourself ready” his voice was a raspy mumble “We will be reaching land in a few hours”

“Oh” her breath was heavy; her pulse was thudding in her throat, her corset had never felt so constraining and warm “Of course...”

He was staring, eyes raking over her. What thoughts crossed his mind when he looked at her so intently? How did she look to him? Her cheeks should be glowing red, her lips swollen from their exertions, she was aware of that with every nerve. But she held his gaze, glimpsing shades of embarrassment and daze that should be mirroring her own.

She wanted to reach out for him and pull him into her embrace again but some belated nervousness stopped her. She reached for the furs on the chair instead, wrapping herself with them, feeling both warm and chilly.

With no further words, he gave her a terse nod and left her again, this time with a soaring heart to keep her company. She almost called him back. Her face was burning, tingly. Sansa shuddered and closed her eyes, waiting for her heartbeat to even. Brushing trembling fingertips across her mouth, she closed her eyes and gave a long, fluttery sigh. She could still feel the heat of his mouth and the scratch of his stubble on her neck. Thinking of how that was the first time a kiss made her wish for something more, she determined that one as her first real kiss, the others didn’t count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Littlefinger would be my hero, if it wasn’t for...  
> A. The exploitation of women as sex workers in his brothels  
> B. the Jeyne Poole affair  
> C. His creepiness towards Sansa  
> D. It’s been a while since I’ve read the books, but I’m quite sure that he really is poisoning Robert  
> E. the defenestration of Lysa.
> 
> 2\. RIP Lysa, a true victim of the patriarchy.
> 
> 3\. Forget the violence and the incest, what truly disturbed me when I read the ASOIAF books were the storylines of Arya and Sansa. Maybe I’m reading into it the wrong way (I hope so!) but I understand their struggle as not only for survival but also for identity. I mean, the Stark boys have allies who know exactly who they are. They have their direwolves (the symbol of the Stark identity) with them all the time. The girls are forced to hide, to associate with people who want to use and change them. By the end of the fourth book they are on the verge of completely losing their sense of self: Arya is No one and Sansa is Alayne Stone. Sansa’s case is the most alarming one because she’s lost Lady for good, whereas Arya might find Nymeria someday (and therefore her Stark identity). Is that GRRM way of telling us that she will never be her own person again? I can’t tell how much the thought saddens me. :C
> 
> 4\. Thank you all for reading :D  
> Forever apologizing for long chapters and poor command of English grammar.


	14. Grains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R'hllor have mercy, I've been trying to release this kraken for weeks (trying to make it shorter and readable but you know what? I GIVE UP!)  
> WARNINGS: it's long, with lots of pointless, badly written dialogue. Keep in mind that I am only a student trying to learn this beautiful language, ergo disgraceful mistakes are to be expected.  
> See you at the end, bye!

It often seemed winter had left everything stagnant. The ground that refused to thaw, the sun that refused to shine, and rivers that refused to flow. The ones around Riverrun had finally awakened from a long, frozen sleep, a furious rousing akin to the awakening of a sleeping giant from one of Old Nan’s stories. The defrosting had swelled the rivers with icy, rushing waters, causing them to burst their banks and wash away all that stood on the way. And when the waters had ultimately receded, the lands around had turned into a sad, muddy wasteland, so unlike Sansa would envision the Riverlands when Mother would tell her of glittering rivers and gentle summer mornings. It was like a war, she reflected, such ugly struggle between the seasons, the chaos brought about by transitions of any form. Likewise, Sansa felt a shifting within herself and it fazed her. It made her wish she was made of ice, eternal, unbreakable ice like the one which gave shape to the Wall. Feeling so much was hateful.

“Thank the Gods the Castle was scarcely affected, but we have been cut off from dry land for the past sennights. We do not know how many lives were lost as of yet, countless people are now dispossessed, most of the livestock is lost and the mills are ruined...”

Sansa was forced out of her reverie by Margaery’s oddly cheerful voice. Clad in Tully red and blue, the Rose of Riverrun, as she was known now, seemed already well adjusted to her new role and Sansa was glad for it. She would never forget that Lady Tully had given her kindness, and some measure of protection, when Sansa was starving for both.

They were taking a walk along the Godswood, arm in arm, after spending the better part of that morning indoors, trying to settle the matter of the supplies. An episode they had tacitly agreed to refer to as “ _a terrible misunderstanding over some scanty barrels and sacks of oat, wheat and barley”._ Margaery had clarified that the wares intended for King’s Landing had been sent to Riverrun by mistake, and that the only reason they had failed to redistribute them was due to the floods.

The misunderstanding, though, represented several steps back in the already unstable relations between the Reach and the Crown. Highgarden had broken the royal decree which had forced them to provide monthly rations to the regions of the Kingdom not as fortunate as to be spared from the food shortage. The state of affairs had culminated in a small riot in the capital. “ _Even the rats in the gutters are getting hungry here”_ Lord Seaworth had stated in the missive which had prompted the King to come to the Riverlands. The supplies sent from Winterfell had been enough to mitigate the crisis temporarily, but soon more would be required.

Sansa believed that she and Lady Tully had brought the matter to a satisfying conclusion. She had dispatched the written treaty to the King, who had but to read and sign it.

Sansa prayed he would not let offence cloud his reason and simply sign the document. If only things were that simple...

 _"Father doesn’t like the Tyrells very much”_ Shireen had let her know, and Sansa soon found out that her husband’s sentiments towards them tended more to animosity rather than mere dislike. It was the product of an old grudge, which had started in the siege of Storm’s End and reached a summit when the late Renly Baratheon proclaimed himself King with the power of the Reach behind him. Too bad it seemed that there were more Tyrells living in Riverrun than in Highgarden those days. Margaery had a large retinue, even the new Maester of the castle was a Tyrell by birth.

“ _Settle this. You have proven to be experienced in dealing with such matters. It’s a headache I won't have. Do whatever you deem necessary,”_ the King had asked her, his mouth canting up at a sardonic angle, which matched neither his words nor his alleged trust in her competence. Regardless, it had been the first time Sansa was given the chance to act on his stead, as well as the first time he had addressed her directly in many dismal days. But since then he had been surrounded by a crowd of petitioners and complainers from all over the Riverlands and it had been the last she had seen of him in three whole days.

Not that she had been seeing much of him prior to that. He was not even trying to hide his wish to avoid her. He had avoided her in Seagard, he had avoided her on the road to Riverrun and once they had reached their destination he would acknowledge her presence only when it couldn’t be helped. His treatment of her reverted to the terse formality of the early days of their acquaintance and that left her conscious-stricken, mortifyingly sure that her inept boldness had displeased him, that he regretted marrying her. She had to remind herself of some old lessons, that wives should not cast aside modesty or encourage and provoke their husbands.

“ _Maybe he didn’t like kissing me”_. It was an appalling thought that would not leave her alone. After all, it was common knowledge that he had shared the bed of the Red Woman, who looked like she had a wide range of experience of such things. And Sansa couldn’t decide which possibility was the worst: that he thought her wanton or unskilled.

“ _Stop it_ ” she told herself “ _Pay attention to Lady Tully_.”

“...The situation would have been far more calamitous if not for my Lord husband’s fast decision of welcoming the smallfolk within the castle. He can’t help caring” Margaery smiled, her catlike eyes were as lovely and sharp as ever. She was constantly exalting Edmure Tully’s qualities or sighing over him.

“You certainly have a great deal of work ahead of you, Lady Tully”

“We are very optimistic about it, my husband and I. This is one of the finest, most fertile lands in the country. The rivers are fish-abounding again and our fields are already being cleaned and ploughed. By springtime everything will be ready, and we’ll only have to pray for a good harvest” Lady Tully’s fingers closed around the seven-pointed star, circled with silver thorns, which dangled from a delicate chain around her neck. Sansa had never taken Margaery for a pious woman but now it seemed that all Tyrells had to live up to the honour of being labelled Most Devoted House in the Seven Kingdoms, a title granted to them by the High Septon himself.

They strolled for a while longer, talking amenities; until they reached the yard. The place was bustling with activity as people went about their household chores. Many of them would stop to bow for them or ask Lady Tully’s opinion about this and that matter. While Margaery was inquiring after someone’s health, Sansa’s attention was grabbed by a group of children playing nearby.

They were engaged in an odd, lively tag game of sorts. A girl, whose face was hidden under a dark hood, would point her finger at someone and all the other players had to chase the person down while chanting with melodious cheer: “Hang them, hang them, hang them! The Hangwoman’s spoken!”

Sansa felt a chill. Hangwoman, Merciless Mother, the Stranger’s whore, Stoneheart...

Everywhere in the Riverlands people would whisper of her, the fearless leader of the Brotherhood. Though no one would agree on what her real name was, all rumours about her seemed to agree that she had gone mad with grief after her children were slain by lions.

“This game is so morbid but they love it” Margaery said, taking hold of Sansa’s arm again “Watch, now they will simulate a hanging.”

Sansa watched in a fusion of mild shock and amusement as the children reproduced in play the sinister ways of the war-torn world. Hanging was the way of the Riverlands, less messy than beheading, quicker than burning. It was said that during the height of the conflicts, it was hard to find a tree whose branches were not occupied by a hanging corpse.

“It’s no worse than Lord of the Crossing” said the jovial voice of Edmure Tully as he joined them.

Sansa already felt an indulgent sympathy for her uncle. He was chivalrous and even-tempered, with an agreeable face, which was lovely in its familiar planes. What was more; he would tell her many stories of Lady Catelyn, who had been more mother than sister to him.

“Husband” Lady Tully’s eyes lit up.

He took his wife's hand and kissed it slowly, with the ease and familiarity expected of a husband. Margaery grinned in response, visibly pleased to see him. They looked so intimate already, always necking like the newlyweds they were. Lord Tully seemed to relish his wife every gesture and utterance and in return Margaery would lavish attention on him. Sansa caught herself wondering what it would be like to have that. It shouldn’t be such a ludicrous notion on her part, expecting to be adored by her own husband, to have his eyes following her steps with appraisal rather than distrust. So absorbed was Edmure Tully by his wife that it took him a while to heed his Queen’s presence. When he did, Sansa braced herself for the inevitable.

“Gods, I'll never get used to it” he said, eyes widening a little, sad wonder in his voice “You really are Cat’s very image...especially when you wear the hairstyle she favoured...”

Sansa had lived with the comparison her whole life and in Riverrun the remark was made five times more often.

“The comparison is always taken as a compliment, uncle” she tried to smile. In reality, it was quite upsetting too, for deep down she knew she would never be half the great lady her mother had been. “ _You are more beautiful than she ever was...”_ the annoying voice in the back of her mind whispered and Sansa told it to shut up.

“Believe me" Lord Tully said "It’s meant as one, Your Grace”

Sansa offered him the warmest smile she could muster, but at the same time she felt an old fissure in her heart opening wider. Everything in Riverrun reminded her of Lady Catelyn. The last time they had talked, Mother was so grief-stricken over Bran she didn’t have many words left to say. She had left his bedside only long enough to bid her and Arya farewell and kiss their brows. “ _Bran will be fine, Mother, you’ll see. Everything will be fine”_ Sansa had told her, firmly believing in her own words, because, at the time, she had no reason to doubt her conviction that death was a sad occurrence which only happened to others, far away from Winterfell.

Sansa had been lodged in the room which had belonged to young Cat, a thoughtful courtesy of Lord and Lady Tully. She had searched the place thoroughly, hoping to find something, anything, even though she couldn’t say exactly what she was looking for. Lady Catelyn had left nothing behind. Nor gown or jewellery, nor favourite books or personal objects, no token of her existence. They had thrown her remains in the river; there wasn’t even a place for mourning.

“ _Tullys belong to the river. There’s consolation in that, however small_ ” uncle Brynden had told her when they first met.

“ _And Starks belong to the crypts below Winterfell. At least Father and Mother are where they are supposed to be, even if apart_ ” Sansa thought. It was one of her projects for when the war was over and winter gone, hiring a craftsman to carve Father’s likeness on stone, as befitted all the Starks resting in the crypts. She felt she owed him a proper place to rest. Maybe then she could find the courage to ask him if he had forgiven her...

“If you are feeling rested, perhaps you’d like to visit some of Cat’s favourite places” Lord Tully suggested merrily “It’s only a short ride to the riverbank...”

“What are you thinking, husband?” Margaery reproached him teasingly “The last thing the Queen needs is to sit on a saddle so soon. She's still recovering from her time on the road. Gods know the experience can be intolerably uncomfortable for any proper lady...”

“Not you, you love riding” he said, all proud of his wife.

“For pleasure and sport, not for days on end” she smiled warmly at him “Are you trying to suggest that I am no proper Lady?”

As they laughed and teased each other Sansa began to feel like an intruder. “I’d like to ride along the riverbank very much, Lord Tully” she suggested with a wan smile, raising her voice a little to remind them of her presence “Tomorrow, after the trials, perhaps?”

“After the trials” Edmure Tully’s tone acquired an unexpected solemnity, as if he were the one who was going to be judged and condemned. He exchanged a subtle, slightly anxious glance with his wife.

Perhaps Sansa was not the only one who had been losing sleep over the sort of damage a falling man could cause. _“Men are never as dangerous as when they have nothing to lose; they care nothing for consequences or those who might be dragged down with them in their fall. Feed them with the smallest grain of hope until the very end and they will be satiated and thankful”_ Littlefinger’s voice seeped in her mind like cold water. She wondered if he had found any grain. She didn’t feel like feeding him anything, no more than she wanted to hear his real voice again.

"We were on our way to my solar” Margaery said quickly, looping her arm in her husband’s “Grandmother and the Princess expect us for tea. Will you join us, husband? I’ve barely seen you all day.”

“Anything for your company, wife” he answered resignedly, ready to suffer the presence of Olenna Tyrell and worse for the sake of his wife’s contentment.

The three of them found their way indoors, husband and wife linked together and Sansa, having no one to hold on to, with her hands clasped.

Music greeted them as they entered Lady Tully’s solar. Tom of Sevenstreams was playing his most favoured creation, the song about the King’s victory over the Dragon Queen.

“I can’t stand that singer” Sansa heard her uncle complain to his wife.

Sansa studied the audience, formed mainly by Margaery’s handmaidens. She had made acquaintance with them the day she arrived in Riverrun, saddle-sore, chilling, with the dirt of the road clinging to her skirts. The solicitous girls had ably seen to her every need, yet Sansa had chosen to avoid them afterwards. The piteous look of fear they would cast at her whenever she happened to be in their vicinity would put her off and made her feel as if she were the hangwoman of the children’s song.

The girls were unmistakably related, all of them pale and bleary-eyed, mistresses of the taxing art of keeping their heads down.

And Freys, all of them.

Riverrun was overcrowded with the remnants of the disgraced House. Edmure Tully had given them shelter, probably to honour the memory of the wife he had lost. They said her passing had thoroughly upset him, that he was so besotted with her beauty that he took no notice of his men being butchered in the adjacent hall... 

For once Roslyn Frey’s remaining kin seemed untroubled, enthralled in the ballad, applauding eagerly when the presentation was over. Sansa spotted Shireen sitting at the centre of the gathering between Maester Leo and none other than Olenna Tyrell herself.

“Now, sing the song of the floppy fish” the Queen of Thorns demanded, throwing some coins at the feet of the singer.

“A floppy fish?” Shireen laughed. It was good to hear that sound coming from her again.

“Oh, it’s scandalously funny, very popular in the Riverlands, my new favourite....”

Contrary to all expectations, the Princess had taken an almost immediate liking to the old woman, and apparently, her feelings were reciprocated. “ _The Princess is a delight. I’ve seldom met a girl her age well-read enough to sustain an opinion of substance while being entertaining. After a while in her company we barely notice her disfigurement anymore_ ” the Queen of Thorns had casually mentioned over supper the night before, her tone so friendly it had sounded almost sincere. Sansa would not be fooled, though. Beneath that withered skin and friendly facade there lay hidden thorns just as prickly as ever, waiting to prod someone in the heart.

“Oh, good morrow, Your Grace” Lady Olenna said, noticing their presence. There was a curious blend of mockery, haughty courteousness and childlike insolence in the way she addressed people. “I must say you look lovely today, very Tully-like."

“As you do, Lady Olenna” Sansa answered, fixing her face into a gracious smile, one she would be wearing for the rest of that meeting. She ignored the people bowing for her and took the seat opposite to the crone.

“No need to be kind, my Queen. I probably look like an ugly babe swaddled in all these cloths and furs...”

 _“Yes, you do”_ Sansa thought unkindly. “ _You and Littlefinger hid poison in my hair, you scheming witch”_ she kept recollecting with cold resentment.

“...And still, it doesn’t matter how many layers of clothing I wear, the cold always finds his way underneath them, more eager than a lecherous man. Not even in the gloomiest day of winter Highgarden was this cold.”

“Perhaps you should consider returning, Grandmother” Edmure Tully said politely, helping his wife to a seat before taking one for himself “For the sake of your own comfort, of course.”

“Once again I am deeply, deeply touched by your concern, Edmure” her mocking leer told him that she had neither the intention to leave nor to stop pestering him anytime soon.

“I find the weather in the Riverlands quite mild” Sansa felt perfectly warm wearing only a dark blue gown, a fur-lined robe and a scarf  “We have a saying in the North, Southrons don’t know true cold.”

It was a saying of the Free Folk and, to them, the word “Southron” encompassed all of those who lived south of the Wall, but Olenna Tyrell did not need to know that.

"Please, do tell us more about your home, Your Grace. The _uncivilized_ North sounds like an intriguing place. The Princess has been amusing us with some thought-provoking stories of sad giants and tamed direwolves...”

“The only member of the species I know is rather lovely...” Shireen chuckled, then she frowned as if reconsidering her words “...to those he doesn’t consider a threat, that is.”

“And what of Lord Stark’s infamous army, the bloodthirsty barbarians from the Land of Always Winter? The Queen’s guard has quite the wild look...”

“The Free folk?” the Princess laughed, raising her eyebrows “They are people like any other. Mothers, children, artisans, hunters...”

“Are you telling me that they don’t drink blood from children’s skulls?” the Queen of Thorns sounded terribly disappointed.

“They drink ale from goatskins and wish to live in peace and warmth, same as us...”

“They are no more barbaric than some Southrons I’ve met” Sansa intervened “As a matter of fact, some of the traditions observed this side of the Wall sound rather barbaric to them.”

Osha would say that she’d pierce the guts of whomever dared to tear off any article of precious clothing from her body during a bedding ceremony. “ _And you call us wildlings._ ”

“You see? One knows not in which fiction to believe nowadays. But where are my manners...” The old woman made a gesture with her hand and the Frey girls began to serve them. “Still fond of lemoncakes, my Queen?” she asked with a satisfied smirk.

A girl offered Sansa a tray with the delicacy but she refused it.

“Just tea, thank you” Sansa watched as another girl with slightly shaking hands served her some of the warm beverage. She caught sight of the embroidered cuffs of the girl’s robe and smiled; caressing the delicate stitching “It is lovely needlework. Did you make it yourself?”

Perhaps it would have been more charitable not to acknowledge her. The girl froze, and then nodded vehemently in answer.

“Forgive her, Your Grace” Margaery asked, looking embarrassed “Little Hostella is mute. She hasn’t said a word since...”

“...Since her home was put to the torch by a different class of barbarians” said Olenna Tyrell mildly.

“Oh...you are very talented, Lady Hostella. You must make something for me...” Sansa said, infusing her voice with all the cordiality she could assemble, but Gods, she sounded like Cercei Lannister.

The girl nodded again and moved aside to pour some tea to Shireen. An awkward pause followed, then Lady Olenna insisted on knowing more about Winterfell. She kept asking her courteous, uninterested questions that were anything but. Sansa saw before her eyes a mummer’s farce she had seen before. But they were playing The Bear and the Maiden Fair that day and this time it would be way more difficult to make her say anything she didn’t want to say.

"And the Lord of the place? The current Lord Stark...” the Queen of Thorns asked.

"What of my brother?" Sansa asked, her smiles were making her cheeks begin to hurt.

“He has built quite the fearsome reputation for himself. They say the most fascinating gibberish about him...”

“But Grandmother would not dream to bother the Queen with it” Margaery interfered.

“Why, I must insist she does. Amuse me, please”

“Well, they say that snow doesn’t fall around him, that he is as tall as a giant, as strong and hirsute as a direwolf. Oh, and sometimes, he turns into one and goes hunting at night...”

Sansa saw Shireen’s lips curling into a tiny smile. Some of the most extraordinary aspects of Rickon’s bad reputation, and the fright it inspired, had always been firewood to many jokes between them. To Sansa, the lack of clarification about her brother’s deeds was in itself a form of power and she would use it to their advantage whenever it suited her. It helped to keep people in their places, since the smallfolk, as well as quite a few Lords and chieftains of the Free Folk, actually believed that nonsense.

“...and that he acquired a taste for human flesh when in human form as well...” the Queen of Thorns went on, her voice acquiring a darker tone “...they say there was nothing left of Roose Bolton or his demented bastard after he was done with them...”

Sansa managed to keep her smile fixed in place, even though she felt enraged. It was not the first time she had heard insinuations of the sort, nor would it be the last, and once again her mind punctually dismissed it for the nasty, gruesome untruth that they were. But that vague, disconcerting feeling of not knowing, the fact that there was an entire part of her brother’s life which was a mystery to her, would always gnaw her within.

Osha was the worst liar Sansa ever met, thus, when unwilling to speak her mind, the woman would keep her mouth stubbornly shut. “ _Whatever you have to ask, ask your brother. I can’t speak of it. I won’t speak of it”_. Sansa had never dared to pry too much, though. She neither had the right nor the will to pry. As far as she was concerned, whatever Rickon had done to survive and reach home had been well done. He could tell her what he liked, what he thought she had the right to know, what she could handle to hear. She had shown him the same courtesy. “ _He is still so young. He can’t keep his fingernails clean”,_ Sansa thought and the tenderness her little brother would always inspire in her won over her uncertainties, as it would always happen.

“If one were to believe everything one hears these days” Margaery smiled nervously.

“Reality is always far less intriguing” Sansa answered in a jocose tone “My brother enjoys hunting as much as any young man his age. He is quite selective with his food and very diligent with his duties.”

“He ought to be. A boy whose domains are larger than the Riverlands and the Reach combined...”

A boy with a large army of South-grudging Northerners and fierce Wildlings, all sworn to the King and ready to strike in case the Tyrells, the noble house least affected by the war, was proven uncooperative. That was what she meant. That was the concern in the back of her mind.

The sound of a tray clattering loudly onto the floor made Sansa look up. One of the Frey girls, a plump lady dressed in pink, hid her face in her hands in an attempt to stifle a sob. Then, she escaped through the doorway as though wild dogs were chasing her.

“Are you satisfied now, Grandmother? You know how sensitive Lady Walda is” Margaery reproached the old woman, and then she looked at a younger girl and kindly asked her to see to the distressed Lady.

The girl swept a curtsy and rushed to obey.

“Can you believe, my Queen, that the little airhead still mourns Roose Bolton after all these years?” Lady Olenna asked.

“Well, he was her husband...” Edmure ventured “It’s expected.”

“Then let’s find her a new one. Yes, one who will not mind a woman with some experience instead of some insipid little virgin. To be honest, all that fuss most men make about maidenheads never made much sense to me...What is it if not a silly impasse, nothing other than a thin trickle of blood and a muffled cry in the dark...”

Sansa would not know.

“It’s settled, then” Olenna Tyrell announced happily, looking at the Frey girls “I shall provide you with a modicum dowry and find suitable husbands to all of you, dear girls. If they do not bore me to death first…”

The girls tried to smile, but they all looked like they wanted to blend into the walls.

“It’s very generous of you, Lady Olenna” Shireen said with admiration.

“I’ve rarely been accused of that, my Princess. In truth, I have nothing better to do, now that Margaery is married. But they can’t expect much. Some landed Knight or maybe a small merchant is the best I can do. And the Blackfish is out of question...”

Sansa had noticed the way the girls would flock around her uncle; give him sweets they had made themselves or some other little token or trinket that would mean nothing at all to a battle-hardened man like him. Sansa would have teased him about it but, since they had arrived in Riverrun, her uncle had made himself scarce. He would meander about with a pensive look on his face and she knew the feeling intimately: nothing easier than falling on the trap of contemplations when coming back home after a long absence. She realized then that she hadn’t talked properly to her uncle since the day she had yelled at him in his cabin.

“Ever since he had defended them against the fury of the Brotherhood, these sweet girls have developed a deep esteem for your more formidable uncle" Lady Olenna said, resting her elbow on the arm of the chair "It’s always Ser Brynden this and Ser Brynden that...they could not admire him more if he had marched out of a song with a wreath of flowers on his brow...”

So Sansa and they had that in common. She thought back to when she had first met the Blackfish, how sweat-plastered and blood-spattered his face was. Yet, she had trusted him almost on sight. There was an unmistakable kindness in his eyes. “ _Eyes like Mother’s, eyes like mine.”_ It seemed that they had recognized each other in that light blue shade they both had, that Tully inheritance. “ _You are safe now, child.”_ To Sansa’s consternation, a layer of tears began to blur her vision. She felt a crushing need to find the Blackfish, let him know that all was right between them. She managed to keep her composure, though.

“Honestly, grandmother” Margaery said “Leave the girls alone and let’s stop discussing such unpleasantries while we eat. It spoils the appetite.”

“My appetite for trout is spoiled forever. It’s all we have been eating for the past month.”

“These are difficult times, Grandmother” Edmure Tully said “We should be thankful for our blessings.”

“Edmure believes everything can be excused with that rationale”

After that, they started eating and the conversation ventured into inconsequential matters. Both Lord and Lady Tully seemed relieved for finding harmless topics to discuss. Shireen engaged in an outgoing chat with Maester Leo after finding out that he was good friends with Maester Samwell and Maester Alleras. They had all studied under Maester Marwyn in the Citadel. After a while, the Princess and Ser Gendry left in his company, claiming the Maester would show them the Wheel Tower and its huge waterwheel, which was under repair after being damaged by the floods. The Queen of Thorns told the Frey girls to keep them company and show the Princess around.

For a time, the Tullys dropped comments about the recent flooding, and then they revealed some of their plans for Riverrun’s gardens. Margaery wanted to remodel them after the ones in Highgarden.

“You miss the gardens of your land, don’t you Lady Tully?” Sansa said.

"No more than you seem to miss Winterfell’s Glass Gardens, Your Grace. There’s nothing harder than leaving the places where we’ve been happy...”

Memory evoked the pure scent of earth and herbs and the now familiar twinges of homesickness began to sting Sansa again.

“...But there’s nothing like finding happiness in unexpected places as well” Margaery entwined her fingers in Lord Tully’s, fixing him a teasing stare “I confess that the silvery rivers of my husband’s land have transfixed me from the start..."

Lord Tully raised their joined hands to his lips for a loving kiss and it was all Sansa could do not to roll her eyes.

"You see, my Queen, the truth is that, with so many onerous responsibilities to occupy her days in this muddy wasteland, Margaery has been given little time to brood over Highgarden” Lady Olenna said lightly.

“I do all my duties gladly” Margaery pointed out.

“Yes, yes. I only hope that you and Lord Tully have not been neglecting the issues that really matter...”

“What issues are those, Grandmother?” asked Edmure Tully, rubbing his temple.

“Children, of course. I want a little rose to spoil before I die, but my grandchildren seem determined to frustrate my plans. Willas remains a stubborn bachelor and Leonette Fossoway as barren as the Dornish Desert...” she would never mention shining Loras Tyrell, who had met his end while trying to storm Dragonstone “...how long has it been since dear Garlan was tricked into marrying her? Seven? Eight years?”

“Grandmother...” Margaery smiled nervously, casting a pointed look at the old lady.

“By the Seven, a decade of a marriage cursed with barrenness. I’m sure it is not a problem on the Tyrell side of the bargain. Be that as it may, Margaery is now my last hope.”

“Grandmother, it's too early for...”

“Early?” the Queen of Thorns interrupted categorically “I believe we all commune in the opinion that the world needs new blood. House Tully needs an heir and I need children about me before the Stranger comes to claim me.”

"I would not worry about it, _Grandmother_ ” Edmure Tully said, trying to smile behind a grimace “I am now convinced that you will live to be a hundred. The Stranger himself would be unable to withstand you.”

“I hate to be the one to disappoint you, Edmure, but living is an old habit of mine. The older you grow, the harder you cling to your old habits” the old lady let out a chuckle, then she paused to give Sansa a sly look “You too, my Queen. Hopefully, you shall be able to give this kingdom cause to rejoice sooner rather than later. A dark-haired prince if what they say of the Baratheon seed is true...”

The Queen should never blush. It was required that she should be able to uphold any form of effrontery without any noticeable change to her face. So she sought refuge in her serene smile and leached all the embarrassment from her tone before replying: “Hopefully”

“Perhaps you should consider retiring to your chambers, Grandmother” Margaery intervened quickly “This is surely tiredness talking...”

“Nonsense, I could stay here all day, enjoying the Queen’s delightful company...”

“Unfortunately, we can’t” said Edmure Tully, rising to his feet “Lady Tully and I have matters to discuss before our audience with the King. I trust we’ll meet you there as well, my Queen?”

“Certainly, Lord Tully”

“By your leave, your Grace.”

Then the Tullys left, hand in hand.

“Those two are full of secrets now” Lady Olenna had a strange, serene look on her face as she spoke “Margaery has never kept any secrets from me.”

“Lord and Lady Tully seem to get along quite well”

“It turned out to be a good match, I believe. Margaery is fonder of this husband than his predecessors. Edmure is a good man and there are few of them left in this war ravaged world. Of course, he is unassertive, lacking both imagination and judgment. And he has this rather maddening habit of being merciful. He is too good to everyone, even the prisoners. Even the traitors are well fed and kept warm here. Can you believe that instead of hanging Genna Frey he ransomed her? Of course, her son paid for her freedom with Lannister gold, but still. The woman and her husband would have had Edmure’s trout head on a spike, so no Tully would challenge the claim of the Freys over Riverrun. Hang them all and be done with it, that’s what Lord Tully should have done.”

It was not wholly unwise to exchange prisoners for gold. It was a good way of gaining some assets and encouraging diplomacy during times of war. " _A man's death is final and profits you nothing. His ransom though..."_   It was something Littlefinger would have done.

“Fortunately, Lord Tully found himself an accomplished woman to assist him” Sansa said.

“Indeed. He already adores her, he supports all her enterprises and he is clever enough to leave all matters of importance into her abler hands. For that I am more than willing to forgive him for most of his shortcomings. Margaery has been through enough ordeals. She has earned the right to be left alone, and that is not always a privilege granted to Queens, least of all a Baratheon Queen. That temper of theirs. Their words are a fair warning...You must tell me how you manage to put up with such an overbearing man”.

“His Grace is most kind.”

It was no lie. Although he was not an easy man, he had been kind to her, in his own brusque way.

“King Stannis the Kind?” the Queen of Thorns laughed heartily “Kindness is certainly not the quality for which he is best known for”

“I suppose that being object of the King’s kindness is the Queen’s privilege.”

“And hers alone, but more so if the object of his kindness and the object of his desire are one and the same. Oh, I still can recognize the look of want in a man’s eyes and the King is not exactly subtle about it”

Sansa smiled as if those words had no effect at all on her. However, before she was able to come up with a retort, Steffon Seaworth was announced and entered, bowing before her.

“The King requires your presence in the audience chamber, Your Grace”

"Is he done with the petitioners?" Sansa asked.

“Far from it” the boy looked tired. Keeping up with the King’s strenuous routine was noticeably becoming too much for him.

“Then I shall go at once” Sansa was already standing up, glad for the excuse to leave “The King must not be kept waiting."

“I shall escort the Queen, boy” Lady Olenna said, standing up “Go to the kitchens and have warm trout soup. You look like you need it...”

The squire looked at Sansa, waiting for her acquiescence

“Thank you, Steffon. You may go.”

 The boy bowed again and left.

"If you please, my Queen" Lady Olenna stood, offering her arm "I hope you don't mind. An old woman such as myself needs a bit of support to walk about..."

Sansa took her arm and together they headed to the audience chamber.

"Should we stop by your chambers, Lady Olenna?” Sansa suggested, eager to drop the woman somewhere.

"Oh, no. I didn't spend all this time trying to make Margaery and Edmure leave the two of us alone for nothing, my Queen..."

 _"I knew it"_ Sansa thought. She sighed and asked: "And how may I be of assistance to you?"

"I am the one who is going to be of assistance to you this time, dear girl" The Queen of Thorns said, then she quickly changed subjects as they walked pass a group of serving girls "I hear you and Margeary have settled a satisfactory agreement...”

“I believe so, yes. I am glad that we were able to clear up such terrible misunderstanding…”

“Oh, a most awful one…I hear further chaos was prevented due to Winterfell’s generous support. Thankfully, The Queen is able to supply the King with the resources he needs. I hear you have thrived during winter…”

“I hear you have been just as fortunate. I hear Highgarden didn’t suffer at all with winter dearth...”

“We suffered ailments of a different kind, Your Grace, the gray plague. That boy, the other Targaryen pretender, brought the illness from across the Narrow Sea. Thousands have perished, including himself and most of his allies. The Gods in their infinite wisdom saw fit to doom another usurper before he could cause further damage to this beleaguered land. The Seven are mighty and wise!”

 She said that rather loudly, in a contemptuous voice, so that a group of Poor Fellows that was passing by could listen.

 “The Seven are mighty and wise” a priest smiled back “Seven blessings upon you, Lady Olenna”

The Queen of Thorns smiled, but her eyes were cold and resentful.

“Do you know what has been the worst pestilence to ever befall the South, your Grace? Worse than the plague, the famine and the dragons?" the old woman asked in a low, grudging tone "Sparrows. They destroy property and craftwork, vandalize honest men’s businesses and treat women as if they were dogs. Have you heard what happened to Cersei Lannister?”

“The whole world has”

“She was at fault, of course. Her position demanded a certain amount of dignity she never had. Still, they had no right to expose a woman of noble birth to such ignominy. But that they had the power to do it, that he had dared to arrest Margaery, still affronts me in a very personal level. Just like the King’s new faith is offensive to them.”

The King’s real faiths were duty and scorn for other people’s faith, Sansa thought.

“And do you know what’s worse than a host of sparrows? It’s one led by a genuinely sanctimonious bird. That High Septon is a power-hungry vulture who fancies himself holy and his progeny is vast. But he is not wholly unsusceptible to worldly temptations such as flattering, so long as you praise his devotion, or bribery, as long as you do not offend him by being too straightforward about it. A bit of support to the Warriors’ sons, a brand new Sept to adorn the Reach’s green fields was all it took to win over his good-will. Now we can call ourselves Most Devoted House and Margaery’s reputation is as pristine as fresh fallen snow.”

“And yet, I hear the members of the Most Devoted House are his chief supporters…”

“And I hear Your Grace poisoned the usurper Joffrey Lannister and ran away to the Free Cities. I hear that King Stannis’ shadow slain the usurper Renly Baratheon but I choose to ignore such lies. We all end up believing in the fictions of our choosing, don’t we?”

They stood for a moment staring at each other, both women unflinching.

“You’ve warned me about a monster once. You should know that a different kind of monster lives in King’s Landing. Beware of sparrows, Your Grace. They might destroy all the flowers in your garden...”

The only thing Sansa knew for sure was that the woman in front of her couldn’t be trusted.  They arrived at the doors to the audience chamber. 

"We must continue this lovely chatter over supper, your Grace"

“I shall look forward to it, Lady Olenna” Sansa was about to ask one of her guards to escort the Queen of Thorns, when the woman walked away on her own, with a quick gait that would put a younger person to shame.

Sansa would heed her words and keep her eyes open when she reached the Capital. There was a different sort of imminent distress waiting for her on the other side of that door. Ser Devan announced her and a curt " _Enter_ " was heard.

She took a deep breath and walked in, closing the door behind her. Meeting him was always a bit of a shock for her. He stood at the head of a long table reading a document she recognized as the treaty Maester Leo had transcript earlier that day, following hers and Margaery’s design. As she came closer, he raised his head and met her eyes, acknowledging her presence; the expression on his face eluded her. One day, she told herself, she would get used to the disconcerting effect his eyes had on her. One day she would care nothing for the tension pulling at her. “ _Best start talking_ ”.

“You wished to see me, my King?” she asked, standing at his left. Just a few paces and yet there was an immeasurable distance between them.

“I _wish_ to discuss this accord you and Margaery Tyrell have settled” he clarified, offering her no proper greet. Of course, he himself had no wish to see her.

“Lady Margaery is a Tully now. It’s in her husband’s name that she agreed to sign this treaty” Sansa said, hoping he would take no notice of her heightened colour “They are eager to make amends for the terrible misunderstanding which has left the Capital depleted of provisions...”

“A misunderstanding!?” he grunted, letting the document fall on the table “Is that what they chose to call it? The fact that there were more courses of food at their wedding feast than at ours while the capital was left to wane?”

Sansa remembered that dreadful day when Margaery was wed to Joffrey, and the opulence of it: a hundred courses of food, jousting dwarves, jugglers, fire eaters and plenty of wine. By all accounts her wedding to Edmure Tully had been far less sumptuous: only ten courses and a few musicians. Still, it had been way too extravagant when considering the state of dearth in the Kingdom.

“Those _Tyrells_ have no honour” he snarled the name as if it were an insult “Oath breakers and bloody grain-hoarders, that’s what they are...”

In a manner of speaking, that was what Sansa was too, a grain-hoarder. Would he despise her even more if she admitted that aloud? She had kept the storerooms of Winterfell like the Bankers of Braavos were said to guard their strongboxes. But during winter, food was far more precious than all the riches of the Free Cities assembled. One word of hers and towns and villages would starve. One word and the gates of Winterfell would be closed and a wall of frozen corpses would sprung up taller that the gates themselves. However, she had never closed the gates, nor denied aid to those in need. She had not even considered doing so. Now the smallfolk and the Free Folk had a debt of gratitude to the Starks, whereas the Lords had a debt in gold dragons to be paid back with interest when spring came. The wealth of her House, thus, had been slowly re-establishing itself. _“The world will be yours…”_

“...They hope to destabilize my rule by worsening the shortage of grain and supporting that vulture they call High Septon. I’d have all of them hanged for treason, but war would be unaffordable in the present conjuncture”

“Unaffordable and unnecessary. The Tullys do wish to make amends...”

“And how will they do that, pray tell me. Tully has nothing. Riverrun depends on the Tyrells for supplies as much as King’s Landing does.”

“There is plenty of trout leaping up the streams outside. Now that the rivers are navigable again, the first load of salted trout promised by Lady Tully shall be arriving in King’s Landing within a fortnight at most. She has also written to her father, demanding reparation for the terrible _misunderstanding..._ ”

“Have you seen her writing this said letter?” he asked scornfully.

“With my own eyes, Your Grace. I added your sigil to it and I was also present when Maester Leo dispatched the raven with the message. Of course, now Riverrun expects some small form of compensation...”

“I know, I’ve read the treaty. They expect not being submitted to any form of taxation until the end of the first year of spring for this magnanimous display of good-will...”

“And the unwritten part requires that you praise the Tullys’ benevolence at our upcoming wedding feast...”

“I will do no such thing”

“I can do it for you if you wish”

“I can’t see why either of us should praise them for doing what they must”

“You said so yourself. It is a display of good-will, and it works for your advantage as well as theirs. If either the Tyrells or the Tullys break the trust of the crown, it will be their reputations stained, not yours.The people should know against whom to turn their anger. They should know that their King is doing everything within his power to ease their suffering. _We_ must tread carefully with all of them until things return to some resemblance of order. Patience and concessions are surely the wisest courses of action right now...”

“Patience and concessions. We are standing at the gates of famine. When hunger takes over, it creates its own laws. It leaves little room for patience, loyalty or dignity. It bows to no one. So tell me what good is a ruler who cannot feed his own people?”

She noticed the line of bitterness on the corner of his mouth, and the chillingly empty stare, as though he was contemplating some inward darkness. And then realization dawned on her.

“You have known true hunger...” she said slowly, her heart growing heavy. His was a terrible position, being forced against his will to negotiate with the same people who would have watched him starve to death.

“Why, haven’t you?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows in mock-politeness but looking her straight in the eye, as if daring her to say something else “It has been a long winter”.

“We’ve seen its shadow looming on corners, but we’ve never known its true form” she leaned forward and linked fingers with him “And we won’t make acquaintance this time either.”

“This agreement based on good-will and conjecture will prevent that?” he looked down at their hands. It was the first time they touched since that day in his cabin.

“It’s the natural course that this madness should consume itself and turn to ashes, don’t you think? We are all tired of struggle. Only madmen and opportunists would want the chaos of the past years to persist. Spring is coming whether they want it or not. Then, the Crownlands will produce grains again...”

“Spring won’t come for a while yet and there are heaps of opportunists out there”.

“Exactly, there are heaps of them. There are grain merchants in the Free Cities, orange planters and wine sellers in Dorne, exporters in Oldtown. Kings and nobles are always attractive costumers to tradespeople; even if they receive their payment in the form of advantageous concessions. Let the Tyrells know they are not the only source of grains at your disposal. And in any case, I have been forging a different agreement behind their backs, one that put us in a better position to negotiate and which requires no witnesses nor ink and paper...”

“With whom?”

“With my brother, of course. As soon as you asked me to settle the problem, I wrote to him, urging him to send more wares to the Capital.”

“Winterfell has already sent quite a lot. Can you afford to send more?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“You are sure of it?” he insisted with a hint of doubt in his voice.

“I know all there is to know about Winterfell. I can tell you the exact number of pigs in the pigsties, hens in the henhouses, and the precise amount of grain in the granaries and baskets of turnips laid up in the storerooms” and she was not proud of it. It was not something a lady should know or worry about “Besides, we will be harvesting soon and then, there will be more.”

Not “ _we_ ”. She would not be there to supervise the harvesting. It was Rickon’s responsibility now.

“Are those glass gardens of yours a magical place where all things grow?”

“Were they magical, perhaps we could have grown some peaches. It’s been years since I’ve tasted one” she laughed “ It’s an ancient wisdom which permits that certain seeds are cultivated regardless of weather or season. We’ve been blessed with a succession of rich harvests. Winterfell can provide for the Capital should an emergency occur.”

“Your brother will want something in return”

“The thing he wants the most is to make sure of our safety, mine and Shireen’s”.

His grave, unwavering eyes stared at her, and then they examined the treaty on the table. After a while he took a breath and gave a curt nod.

“Grains and turnips from Winterfell and salted trout from the Riverlands” he gave one of his snorts, but it sounded different, somehow appreciative “ _We_ could do worse”

Sansa lowered her had to hide a chuckle.

"You shouldn’t show your relief so obviously" she couldn't resist saying "It would make me assume that the King of the Seven Kingdoms is thankful for my assistance".

“And you shouldn’t flaunt your arrogance. It’s unbecoming for a Queen” his voice was harsh, his brows were furrowed, but his eyes gazed at her with an elusive smirk.

A pleasurable twinge went through her and all of a sudden the distance between them seemed nonexistent. She eyed their entwined hands, then his firm chin, his lips. For a moment she thought he was going to lean forward and kiss her. She wanted him to. She had made up her mind, that morning in his cabin. She wanted to be his wife. Couldn’t he feel her willingness? His eyes moved down her neck, hidden by the high collar of her gown. She recalled the feel of his lips there. “ _Gods, why recall it?”_ The memory alone would leave her cheeks aflame, her breathing constricted and her skin too sentient. Was he thinking about it too?

“I must write to the Hand, let him know of the new developments...” he said, letting go of her hand in order to take hold of a quill.

“I can write to him. The petitioners outside are waiting for you...”

"...Waiting for a chance to flatter me into doing what they want.”

“I’m sure they all must walk away from this chamber feeling terribly disappointed” she tried not to grin. His expression grew grave.

“Littlefinger will be put to trail tomorrow” he said hurriedly, taking hold of the treaty again.

She ducked her head, and felt her smile slowly fading. “I know”

“You probably think that you have to put yourself through the trouble of attending it, but you don’t. Stay in your chambers if you like.”

“But…”

“I don’t want you anywhere near him.” he said with vehemence.

“I appreciate your concern, but hiding in my mother’s old bedchamber would be utterly unbecoming. I trust your justice. I want to watch it being done.”

And she had that unfounded hope that, perhaps, her presence could restrain Littlefinger. She knew he had feelings for her; though their true nature had always confounded her. _“He said that he had protected you, saved you from the Lannisters and treated you like his own daughter”_ the King had let her know.

Still pondering about that, Sansa left the audience chamber, meeting Lord and Lady Tully on the way. She asked them for a quiet place to write a letter and Margeary suggested she go to Lord Tully’s solar, saying that no one would bother her there. Sansa thanked them and walked towards her destination, followed by five members of her guard.

She opened the door and entered alone, finding a surprisingly bright place. She looked about. The heavy tapestries and hangings which had covered the windows during winter to keep in some heat lay crumpled on the floor. A window had been thrown open and there, in the gray light, stood the Blackfish.

"My Queen" he seemed surprised to see another human being. He bowed to her, rather formally.

“Hiding, kind Ser?” she asked, raising one eyebrow, glad to see him.

“That is quite the accurate assessment” he cast a weary but playful look at her “My ears are ringing, my head is aching. I have had enough of crowds. I thought of lingering here for a while...”

“Would you mind if I hide here with you? I need to write a letter, I’m sick and tired of crowds myself, and I can only suffer the company of Olenna Tyrell in small doses. I wonder how long before uncle Edmure decides it’s time to drown her in the river...”

“He might have to ask Margaery’s opinion first, so it can take some time” he snorted.

 She chuckled and came closer to him, noticing the embroidered handkerchiefs and honey cakes he had placed on a table by his side.

 “Gifts from the girls” he explained.

 “They all admire you greatly, the Freys” she would not miss the chance to tease him about it again “Is this a habit of yours? Rescuing helpless maidens?”

 “What would you have me do? Stand by and let _her_ harm them? It was the first and only time I challenged a command of _hers_...” he stopped mid sentence and looked ahead.

“The Lady you used to serve?” Sansa asked hesitantly. If rumours could be believed, he had been her right-hand man.

“She was no lady...” his voice faltered “...but a creature born of grief and wrath. Nothing appeased _it_ but the sight of _its_ hanged enemies....I came to wish I had never met _it_. I still hear it, that hellish sound she made when she spoke... I hear it every single day. _Hang them. Hang them. Hang them_ ” he slammed the side of his fist on the wall in tempo with his words. It sounded like the children’s song. Sansa felt a cold shiver.

“She spared no one. No infant or woman, no one. When she finally got the revenge she wanted, she was no more. She fell to the floor with a smile on those awful lips; as if a gust of wind had blown life away from her. Then, I put her on a boat and set it alight with a flaming arrow...”

“You gave her a Tully funeral? In spite of everything, you felt strongly for her, didn’t you? I’m sorry you’ve lost your Lady, uncle”

“I found a different lady to serve. Although I might have fallen out her favour, my loyalty is hers...”

Secure by such support, and in lack of words to say, she let her eyes scrutinize the landscape spread before them. The place where the river forked looked like the ends of an untied silver ribbon.

“It’s a striking view…”

“It’s the best in the entire castle”

“It must be quite something in spring”

“You should see it when the rivers are surrounded by green; it shimmers so bright it hurts to look at it long.”

“This was my grandsire’s solar, I take it”

“Yes, this was his place. I thought to take one last look at it now that Lady Tully is going to redecorate it...”

“She can’t. It’s perfect the way it is” the very idea was outrageous.

“The way it is distresses Edmure. He spent too much time at mercy of lions here. He was brought here, questioned and threatened, again and again. I’ve noticed that his hands shake a little whenever he steps in here. I won’t hold it against him but his father might as well come back to haunt him at night for this” he laughed “That imperious prick would not stand to have his will challenged, his orders questioned or his solar altered. Not eveen your Grandmother was allowed to touch anything here...” he stopped and smiled as if he was remembering something, then sadness grew in his face “ _Family, duty, honour_. We are all cursed with these three words in this House. Do you have any idea how hard it can be to live by them at times?”

 _"Family_. It’s the only word that matters” she’d gladly sacrifice duty and honour for her family, and those who were loyal to her.

“Do not worry so. That pig-headed boy you call brother is more than capable of looking after himself. You’ve done a good job on him.”

“That’s hardly my fault.”

“He is a true Stark, that boy. But he can be quite the Tully as well” he chuckled inwardly, sounding proud “If he can't have what he wants, he won’t settle for anything less...”

She wasn't sure if she knew what he meant, but an old spark of curiosity lit inside her anew. She had often wondered why a man like him had never married. “ _Because no sane woman would have tolerated him”_ was Robert’s theory.

“Was that what happened?" she ventured with an unladylike grin "You would not settle for less than what you wanted?”

His silence was all the answer she needed.

“What happened to her?” she asked, unable to hide her curiosity.

“She is long gone” he said, glancing at the ceiling as if the walls were oppressing him. He clearly had no wish to talk about it but she could not keep quiet. She would always have a weakness for tales of knightly valour and courtly love.

 “Was she a lady?”

 “Every inch of her”

 “Was your lady beautiful? Did you rescue her as well?”

 “She didn’t need rescuing. She was quite content where she was. Don’t you have a letter to write?”

 “She didn’t return your affections, then?”

 “She was never aware of them” he said annoyed “I could not burden her with them”

 “Burden? I’m sure any lady would be flattered”

“The truth would offer her nothing; it would only risk whatever manner of stability she possessed” his eyes were set in the landscape, but he seemed to be seeing something far beyond “The knowledge of certain things can be unendurable. It can wound and scar” he looked at her and for a moment it seemed he was going to tell her something important, something that would uncoil a tight knot from his chest “It’s no sin wishing to spare the ones we love from it, it’s a sacrifice we make for them, an act of abnegation. Oftentimes, they are better off not knowing…”

“Is there anything you want to tell me, uncle?” Sansa murmured, feeling a warm sting behind her eyes.

“No, child” he sighed, placing a hand on her shoulder “Worry not”

They stayed there a while longer in companionable silence until shouts and the sound of things being thrown on the floor were heard. They exchanged a startled look.

 “Stay behind me” the Blackfish said as he drew his sword.

They stalked through the door and Sansa’s guards immediately formed a protective wall around her. They followed the noise to the audience chamber, arriving in time to see the King bursting through the doors, while ordering Ser Devan not to follow him. He stormed along the corridor. People moved as fast as they could to get out of his way.

Startled, Sansa hurried in after the Blackfish. The place was crowded, showing traces of recent upheaval. Wine was spilled all over the table; chairs were tossed about as if all those sitting on them had stood up at the same time in haste. Edmure Tully sat on a chair, massaging his throat as if someone had tried to strangle him recently. Margaery knelt before him, all concern, holding his hand.

“What in the Seven Hells has happened here?” asked the Blackfish, sword in hand.

“Lord Tully has just made acquaintance with the King’s displeasure” Lady Olenna answered in a forced tone of tragedy.

“The King is unsatisfied with the loss of a prisoner” Margaery turned to Sansa, unease in her eyes.

"What do you mean by loss, my Lady?" asked the Blackfish “Is he dead?”

 “Gone…” Edmure Tully said, a miserable look in his face “He escaped…”

 “He didn’t escape, my love” Margaery corrected him gently “He walked away from Riverrun like the free man he was. The Gods have judged him and decided for his innocence.”

 Sansa noticed that her eyes kept peering at a group of Poor Fellows that had gathered at the door as she spoke.

 “Trials by combat surely have unexpected outcomes” said Septon Horas, who was a Tyrell on his mother side “But all those who commune in the one true Faith of the Seven are entitled to ask for one. We must all bow before the will of the Gods, even the King…”

 “There’s only one God” snapped Lord Massey “And the only mercy he grants to traitors is to burn them quickly. I call this treason!”

 “Only the King can choose a name for it, Lord Massey” Margaery said firmly.

All of a sudden, Sansa knew where the conversation was heading. The last thing they needed was such a large audience.

 “Out, all of you” Sansa commanded, looking at her guards.

 “You heard the Queen” one of the boys shouted. Their departure was a noisy confusion, carrying all the sparrows, Septon Horas and Lord Massey with them.

 “Who, Edmure?” the Blackfish howled, grabbing his nephew by his doublet, raising him to his feet “Who!?”

Edmure Tully gulped, and then he sputtered: “Petyr Baelish.”

Sansa’s knees went weak and the walls trembled at the curse the Blackfish shouted. Then everyone was talking at the same time.

 Over the cacophony of voices Sansa was able to make out the whole story. It turned out that Edmure Tully would not turn his back to the prisoners freezing to death in the dungeons, least of all the man who had been like a brother to him, who had build castles of wooden blocks with him in his Father’s solar. So, when the King left Riverrun to fight against the Dragon Queen, Lord Tully felt compelled to do what he claimed any Tully would have done. He placed his childhood friend in a guest room with a man to guard the door. He would visit him sporadically, so that they could speak of the good old days. Littlefinger would assist him with his finances and be provided with ink, quill and paper in order to practice writing with the hand he had left. As time went by and people led by Poor Fellows fled the pestilent, burned Capital in search for shelter, Lord Tully opened the gates of Riverrun to all those in need. He wasn’t expecting that there would be sellswords amidst the refugee.

“This man...Brune... offered to fight for him. I thought it was a joke...” Edmure Tully continued.

 Sansa remembered Lothor Brune, sharp-tongued, skilful with a sword and apparently loyal to Littlefinger. “ _He protected me from the disgusting singer. He would always have a smile for Mya Stone…”_           

“The entire situation is a joke, Edmure, a bad one” Lady Olenna sounded serious for once “So this is the secret you and your husband have kept from me? Badly done, Margaery…”

“Not now, Grandmother!” the Rose of Riverrun sounded tired.

“I should throttle you myself, Edmure!” the Blackfish threatened.

 “What should I have done, uncle? He demanded a trial by combat, there was a man willing to fight for him...”

 “You should have told him to shut up! You should have thrown him back into a cell!”

 “I would have...but...”

 “But what!?”

 “Too many Sparrows...” Edmure said under his breath, then the Blackfish let go of him “They demanded his release...They said it was the will of the Gods...”

 “How fitting, the sparrows saved the mockingbird. It sounds like a bedtime story...” Lady Olenna snickered “I shall tell it to your children, Edmure. The day the mockingbird outwitted the floppy fish. Let it be a cautionary tale to them.”

 “You’ve done no wrong, my love” Margaery cooed, embracing her husband “You were noble and just and what’s done is done...”

 He put his arms around her, and she snuggled into his chest. But her eyes were locked on Sansa all the while, as if pleading for some support.

 “Don’t you have anything to say, my Queen?” the Queen of Thorns asked, sounding mildly interested.

 Sansa felt all the eyes on her, but she would never let her shock and confusion show on her face.

 “I must discuss the matter with the King” she said calmly, then she turned her back and left the chamber, all bowing before her along the away. She needed some air.

 As she walked, she let the new developments sink into her mind. Sansa wasn't free from worry, but neither was she afraid. She felt strangely clear-headed. “ _He’s not here.”_ Littlefinger was a man who had made and unmade himself times beyond count. But then, so had she. He knew her secrets but she knew his just as well. She would know how to deal with him, should he ever cross paths with her again.“ _He’s not here. He doesn’t get to speak today. Not today”_ Not while she was still feeling around in the dark, trying to make out the ever-changing form of her relationship with her husband, trying to adjust to her status of Queen. She would not have to agonize over that matter for the time being. She broke into a fit of laughter; her muffled guffaws resembled a sobbing. She laughed herself to breathlessness, to a state of numbing relief. “ _He’s not here.”_ If there was one thing that winter had taught her was to save herself useless worries, to take comfort in all the things she was powerless to alter and therefore were not her direct responsibility.

 “My Queen...” the concerned voice of Steffon Seaworth made her come back to reality.

 “Are you well?” the boy asked timidly.

 “Quite well, Steffon” she smiled kindly “Do you know which direction the King has taken?”

 “Down this corridor, towards the water gate” he answered, pointing to his left “But he is in a foul temper...please, don’t go after him alone...”

 She told the boy not to worry and asked him to find the Princess and reassure her that everything was fine before the news of the commotion reached her.

 She commanded her guards to wait for her and made her way down a windowless corridor. There was an iron door left ajar at the end. She slid in, finding herself at the top of a narrow side staircase, which descended into a small, enclosed quay covered by a vaulted ceiling. A cool breeze caressed her cheeks. The river flowed through the rusted bars of the old water gate. There was a row of boats moored to iron rings encrusted on the walls, bobbing to the pleasure of the water.

 She found him standing at the foot of the staircase, leaning against the wall, flexing his arm as if it pained him. His head snapped up at the sound of her steps. Their gazes met for a moment, and then he looked away.

 “You know” he accused sourly.

 “Yes” she rested her hand on the wall, took hold of her skirts with the other, and then began to slowly climb down the uneven steps, the sound of her footsteps echoed in the vaulted space.

“Your uncle’s incompetence knows no bounds. He will pay for this...”

 “What is going to be?” she smirked “Hanging or death by fire? He means well and lack of competence is no crime...”

 “It should be. It’s a form of neglect”

 “If you are to outlaw incompetence, you’ll have to give half the lords of this country to the flames”

 “Just half?”

 She chuckled softly, stepping closer to him. She felt him tense as she placed her hand on his arm.

“It still hurts?”

 He didn't answer but neither did he pull away.

 “Your arm will never heal properly if you insist on using it. Let’s find Maester Leo…”

 “A sennight ago you wanted to see Littlefinger burn” he narrowed his eyes; his voice held a trace of suspicion.

“What do I care for his ashes?” she shrugged “I have no use for ashes.”

 “He’s out there, laughing at us!”

“The laughter of beaten men is a rather sad sound” she fingered the antler-shaped fastening of his doublet as she spoke, admiring the metalwork “I shall not concern myself with him more than I have to”.

“And why is that?” her assurance seemed to both irritate and puzzle him.

 “We’d suffocate considering all the problems we can’t solve. We’d be paralyzed with worry. I say we deal with it if presents itself. And in any case, my husband will protect me, won’t he?”

He was so tall; she had to look up to meet his eyes. “He won’t let any harm befall me”

 “Never” he blurted.

She made no effort to conceal her smile. The stress, the spontaneity of his inflection was soothing; it made waves of warmth wriggle their way through her. Under his frown, she identified some emotion made of want, irritation and a shade of uncertainty. She tilted her head back, hoping that maybe he’d kiss her again, but he did nothing. He seemed to be considering a hundred different possibilities in his head, unable to decide for one. She flattened her hands on his chest, which expanded under her palms with each heavy breath he heaved. His thick garments didn’t let her feel much; yet the impression of him, the closeness, weakened her a little. She had yearned for that lovely weakness, the heat and languor he stirred in her.

Her hand slid up to his face, unfamiliarly smooth to her touch at such early hour. She let the pad of her thumb brush his skin. He closed his eyes and heaved a tired sigh, inhaling and exhaling, as if he had suddenly permitted himself to breath. She felt a subtle change in him, a gradual easing of tension, indefinable yet tremendous. He nuzzled into her touch like one who is giving up after a long struggle. Before she could find a reason not to, she let her hand slid around his nape and arched her feet, replacing the caress of her thumb with the one of her lips, kissing a path down his cheek until their lips brushed. He made a choked sound. She kissed him softly, then recklessly, her tongue filling his mouth, hot and wet. It felt a little like falling, plunging headlong into the sea, hoping the waves would welcome rather than crush her, but it was a risk she was willing to take.

Just as she was sinking back to her heels, he looped an arm around her waist and cradled her head with his other hand. Growling low in his throat, he angled her head and deepened the kiss. She clutched onto his shoulders, pressing herself against him, moaning into his mouth.His fingers tightened in her hair. She could feel the want he was trying hard to hold back, and also the edge of something tender that made her melt inside.

But then his mouth became a thin line. She cupped his cheeks with both hands, flicking her tongue against his lips, hoping to find her way in again. His hands closed around her wrists, and he held her at arm’s length,away from him. Sansa made a muffled noise, startled at the abrupt stop.

 “You must take me for more of a fool than the rest of them...” his tone was cold, eyes flaring with hostility and suspicion, almost menacing.

“What...” she began to say, still a little dazed by the kiss.

 “You toy with me!” his lips snarled, his expression darkened.

The unfair accusation made her shiver. Her chest grew tight and the words she wanted to utter attached themselves to her throat.

 “Does taunting me gives you pleasure? Is that what _this_ is?”

 “You are my husband” she frowned, looking at him in confusion “That’s what this is”

 “Not the first” he said tartly.

For a moment she was at a loss. Then understanding came and she felt the belated lash. She merely stared at him, unable to move, as if an ice stake had nailed her into place. She thought of truths that can wound and scar. And the truth was that he had no regard for her. He might as well have hit her. With whatever remained of her presence of mind, she wrenched herself away and tried to leave but he reached his hand out and grabbed her upper arm, turning her forcibly toward him. He stared at her with a deeply unsettled expression, his jaw clenching tighter.

“Unhand me” she hissed, looking defiantly into his eyes.

 It took a while for him to lose his grasp on her arm. She wriggled from his hold and he placed his hand on the wall behind her, blocking her path. Sansa stood before him, refusing to feel cornered or ashamed; instead there was disappointment spreading through her veins like some cold poison. Why did he have to ruin everything?

 “You don’t want spoiled goods?” she said in a low tone, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of it “If that’s your main concern, then rest assured. I’ve told I’m a maiden, a hardly spoiled one. My first marriage was a sham; much like the second has been so far. But I could only be glad for the first one. I was a child then, do you understand that?” she met his eyes as squarely as she was able “Well, Tyrion Lannister did, and he was decent enough to keep his distance.”

 She knew it hadn’t been mere decency or kindness; perhaps her unwillingness had hurt the Imp’s pride. “ _As mine is hurt now”_. The man standing before her was just as proud, too proud. It should be such a slight against his honour to be married to her. Such sad, delayed realization had her cursing herself for the fool she would always be at heart.

“Do I disgust you?” the pathetic question escaped through her lips and reverberated in the air before she could tell it back. He seemed utterly taken aback.

 “Do you wish for an annulment?” she felt the dismay crawling up her spine. Her position as his wife and Queen would be at peril until the day their marriage was consummated. He could easily cast her aside that very day if he fancied. Such possibility had made some attempts to sneak into her thoughts before, but she had forced it out of her mind, refusing to believe he’d do that, even if it was just because he needed the North. She was the North.

Though her question was perfectly valid, it earned her no response other than an exasperated frown, the silence was stressed by the murmurs of the river.

 “Is that what _this_ is?” she pressed on, echoing him angrily “Tell me now and I’ll turn back and go home...”

 “No” he snapped, seeming as incensed as she was.

“Then be my husband...while I am still willing to be your wife” she sounded flustered, she was panting, but so was he, she noticed.

 It all happened so fast.

He groaned and she gasped as he grabbed her waist and cradled her head, drawing her tightly against him. Hot and hungry his mouth claimed hers. He bit and sucked at her lips, the avid pressure made her open up for him. It was hard keeping up with him at first, but then she met his tongue stroke for stroke, in a bruising exchange, which was kindled by an enormous amount of frustration. Her senses struggled madly against the consuming heat of such onslaught; her mind grew denser than smoke.

He pushed her back against the wall and she whimpered, more in pain than pleasure. However eager she felt, she pulled away a little, averting her lips until she found a gap for breath.

“W-wait...” she puffed, her whole self aflame “It’s hurting me…” she managed to whisper.

 He immediately went still and jerked his head back, visibly alarmed.

 “Your sword...” the hilt was poking her painfully in the ribs. Without a second thought, she reached for his swordbelt, trying to unbuckle it with shaking fingers. That ought to be the sort of wanton behaviour which had made a poor impression on him, but she could be angry with herself, and him, afterwards, right then her sole concern was to get closer.That was what being inebriated should feel like.

 He let go of her and, moved her hands off the way, quickly unbuckling his belt himself. Then he let the renowned Lightbringer fall on the ground with a loud thud that made her jump.

 His eyes searched her face as if asking for permission. She had given it to him, ages ago. Large hands, rough hands, cupped her face. She closed her eyes and felt those callused fingers caressing her cheeks. His mouth covered hers again, gently this time. A hand slid to her throat. She helped him to unwind her scarf. He yanked at it, letting it slid to the ground. She met the heat of his eyes while she undid the fastenings of her fur-lined coat, just that stare was enough to make warmth pool in her centre. He moved her high collar aside and then, flexing his knees, he buried his face in the hollow of her throat. He remained there, breathing her in, it seemed. Then he slipped a strong arm inside her coat, gripping her about the waist, trailing kisses along the curve of her neck. Her hands slipped up his back and hooked his shoulders, holding him tight, every inch of her skin was tingling. 

He wrapped his fingers into her hair, pulling with a gentleness that was barely there. She struggled to keep silent as she felt his teeth nipping their way up her neck. The hand on her waist slid up, his palm stroking her ribcage, stopping only when he found her breast, grabbing it tight.

“N-no…” her words were half a whisper, half a moan “Gently …”

He withdrew his hand brusquely and went still, taking deep breaths, as if to calm himself. Then, he slid both hands to her breasts; his touch there was almost hesitant. He kissed her slowly, with intent. She pressed into his hands, kissing him harder in return; her soft moans were lost in his frustrated growls. His hands met on the small of her back. She let him drew her closer when she should have pushed him away. She should never have permitted it to get that far. It was all wrong. The place was improper, anyone could walk in and see them, there were dozens of people in the audience chamber waiting for the King to come back, yet she ignored all the warnings of common sense. She pulled him closer, loving his mouth on hers, his warmth, the nearness. _“Just a little longer,”_ she kept promising herself, blinded by the strength of her own excitement “ _Then we stop”._

Only they didn’t. They kept on and on, and she grew too enraptured by the intensity of it all to bother caring. As they kissed, she could feel his hands on her, and him stiffening against her stomach. She felt the impatience growing in him and in herself, and she discovered that the burning need, all the anticipation she felt, was a form of pleasure in itself. So that was what it felt to really desire someone. All of a sudden, nothing other than tending to the terrible, luscious ache throbbing in the private place between her legs seemed to matter. He kissed her under the jaw; her chin and then his lips found hers again.

His hand drifted lower and he began to gather her skirts in his fist, slowly raising the hem. She gasped when his hand clasped her thigh, and she was left standing on one foot on tiptoes. He was strong; he could hurt her if he wanted. _“He won’t, he won’t”._ He thrust his hips between her legs and with the strength of his good arm he lifted her up, pressing her harder against the wall. Sansa wrapped her arms about his neck and her thighs around him. He flexed his hips and pushed his groin into hers, letting her feel its bulge. She tilted her hips and tightened the hold of her thighs, wedging him where she needed. They moaned together, rubbing against each other with tentative slowness while they resumed kissing.

Her fingernails dug into his scalp, needing more. His injured hand moved to the centre of her yearning, kneading her through her smallclothes, up and down. Nothing had prepared her to such an intimate touch. The heat of his palm had her whimpering, arching her back. She clawed his shoulder, moving her hips to meet his hand, eager for some relief to the sweet agony building up from her core. She threw her head back, hitting the wall. Her vision whirled, her entire body clenching, then releasing. She cried out, air leaving her lungs in a rush, heat descending on her in waves.

 “Gods…” she moaned into his ear, holding him tight, feeling open, warm. She knew then with absolutely certainty that she would give herself to him, that she wanted to.

 He stroked his face against her throat; her fingers caressed his nape. She brushed soft kisses over his ear, his cheek and temple. She could feel that he was still tense and hard and it didn’t seem fair. Her hand reached down to repair the injustice, but he growled and caught her wrist, pinning it against the wall, his entire body seemed to coil.

 “Don’t...”he whispered through his teeth.

 “But you...” he could hardly go anywhere in that condition.

 “This was ill-done...” but he was pulling her closer. They spoke in low, hushed, breathless puffs of air that sounded as loud as screams to her ears.

 “No...”

 “I will not dishonour you...”

“We’re married...”

“...more than I already have...”

 “...there’s no dishonour...”

 “...this is not the place...or the time...”

  _“Then come to me tonight_ ”

 Had she said those words aloud or had she merely imagined them? The borders between speech and thought were indistinct right then.

 He pulled back a little, looking into her eyes. His gaze was an intricate combination of desire, self-reproach, and something resembling alarm.

 She was kissing him again when he released his grip on her thigh. She felt the floor under her feet once more. He braced both his hands on the all, breathing heavily, gritting his teeth, shaking. She cupped his face in her hands. Then, without warning, he put his fist through the wall, once, twice, grunting in pain. Sansa breathed a staggered cry and clasped him to her, pressing her brow against his neck. She could have sworn she felt the pain travelling up his arm, and she ached a little with it too. He supported his elbow on the wall, so as not to crush her. His pulse bounced against her temple. His chest rose and fell against her. Had he broken his hand?

They remained there for what it seemed a long time, trying to catch their breaths.

Shaking a little, she let go of her husband and brushed down her skirts. He leaned his back against the wall for support. She knelt down and took her scarf, wrapping it on her neck. Then she took hold of Lightbringer and his swordbelt, standing up. The sword was heavy but she helped him to strap it around his waist. Though her eyes were not quite meeting his, she wasconscious of his heated stare roaming over her all the while. He stepped away from her when they were done, acknowledging her assistance with a quick nod.

“Let’s find the Maester” she said, covering her tousled hair with her scarf. “ _If anyone asks, I shall say that I am playing Hangwoman.”_

They exchanged no words on their walk to the Maester’s solar, but they were so close that every other step made their hands brush. He didn’t speak when Maester Leo politely asked how he had injured his hand, nor when they parted ways and she rushed back to her chambers. Later, Margaery would tell her that when the King returned to the audience chamber in order to sign the treaty, he did not say a word to anyone either. He didn’t attend supper that night, nor the following nights. She only saw him again on the day they left Riverrun and he helped her to her saddle. On the road it was easy for him to disappear amidst his men, so she hardly saw him for days. They had been on the road for over a week when the rain started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. So, originally, this chapter was told from the Blackfish's POV. But it wasn't working, so I changed it back to Sansa. I really like the hypothesis (and I have the rudiments of a fanfic to prove it lol) that he was in love with his sister-in-law, so he decided to step back before it was late . I also like the theory that he never married anyone simply because screw- social- conventions.  
> 2\. Religion is kind of going to be an issue if Stannis ever happen to sit on that throne?  
> 3\. I hope that Stannis and his Stanissisms make more sense (in the context of this story) when we get to see things from his perspective (two or three chapters ahead). Let’s say that Melisandre played a significant role in making him aware of certain fun aspects of life…  
> 4\. Am I the only one who thinks that Margaery and Edmure would totally connect?  
> 5\. I so wish a happy ending to Walda and Roslyn.  
> 6\. Next chapter: one last stop before King’s Landing. Sansa will stop listening to "It feels like we only go backwards" playing on the background. Let’s switch to [insert your favorite babymaking song here] instead.  
> 7\. Also, Sansa’s vocabulary probably doesn’t include the C-words. She’s a lady even in her thoughts.  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I decided to write a happy ending to all my favourite characters in ASOIAF (they all will probably have horrible deaths in canon, but one can hope right?). Stannis is the sexiest, the most interesting character. Hilarious and heartbreaking at the same time. Sansa is also a favourite. Honestly, the poor girl deserves to find a decent man after all the creepy guys she had to endure. I'm so happy I'm not the only one who have considered the possibilities of this pairing!
> 
> 2\. All the kids were aged up. I imagine Sansa is 20. Rickon, Robert and Shireen are 15-16.
> 
> 3\. English is not my first language. I want to apologize in advance for any grammar or spelling mistakes that might offend the english speakers out there. This is also my first attempt at writing. 
> 
> 4\. "Mature" for later chapters.
> 
> 5\. I obviously own nothing.


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